Fineghal's cool gaze softened. He recognized the unbending purity of purpose that infused Aeron at that moment. "All right, Aeron. I will let you come with me ... if you consent to a test."
"A test?"
"Yes. Before I try to teach you, I must know whether or not you can be taught."
"Anything!" Aeron replied.
"You should think before you answer so quickly. There may be a time when you discover that your heart's desire is not what it seems." Fineghal shook his head. "I can see it would be useless to ask you to reconsider. Very well, then. Come with me." With a rueful glance at the misted dell, the elf turned and started down along the stream again, moving slower this time. Aeron and Eriale hurried after him. Baillegh skipped and bounded from rock to rock behind them, bringing up the rear.
Fineghal chose a nearly invisible path that wound southeast, crossing the rocky ridge and snaking through the rugged country beyond. By midday, they were deep into the spine of the forest, the great range of tree-mantled hills that ran through the heart of the Maerchwood. Fineghal led them on a steep trail that eventually climbed clear of the trees altogether, bringing them to a windswept spire of weathered stone. "This will do," he announced as Aeron and Eriale collapsed on the ground.
"What is this place?" Eriale gasped.
"The cumarha midhe," Fineghal said over his shoulder. "In Common, Forest's Stonemantle. It's a place of strength and purpose, a place of magic."
"This is where you'll test me?" guessed Aeron.
Fineghal turned his ancient eyes on Aeron. Despite himself, the young forester quailed. "Aeron, you will imagine that you are in another place, facing a dire threat. The test varies for every person who attempts it; the place and the peril are locked within your heart. But anything you can imagine, you can attempt."
"Is it dangerous?" Eriale asked.
"Magic is dangerous," Fineghal replied. "If Aeron succeeds, he won't be harmed. If he fails . . . many have sustained injury in tests of this kind."
The girl frowned. "Aeron, maybe you should-"
Aeron cut her off with a curt slash of his hand. "I'm ready," he told Fineghal.
"As you wish," Fineghal said. He raised his hand, pointing at Aeron, and hummed a soft melody under his breath. A strange prickling sensation danced across Aeron's entire body, and the hollow of his chest reverberated with a chordlike resonance that drew his breath away. For the second time in the span of a day, Aeron felt magic at work nearby. He gasped in astonishment, closing his eyes.
The world tumbled away in darkness, vanishing like a bird taking wing at dusk. His heart fluttered in his chest in sudden panic, and his hands scrabbled at the nothingness that embraced him. Before his panic could master him entirely, light silently flared around him. He gaped in amazement at what he saw.
He was standing in the great hall of Raedel Keep.
Every detail was perfect, down to the tiny crack in the flagstone by the door, the stale sunbeams that slanted in through the leaded-glass windows, the dancing of dust motes in the yellow light. Aeron had only been in the great hall half a dozen times, and never alone, but here he stood. A ghostlike flicker caught the corner of his eye, and he saw a pale lord hovering behind him.
I am here, Aeron, Fineghal said silently inside his mind. This is the test you have created for yourself. Be strong.
Aeron turned slowly. He could sense the dreamlike quality of the vision, the inordinately still air, the rhythmic beating of his heart in his ears, the impression that things wavered and vanished when he wasn't looking directly at them. Why Raedel Hall? he wondered.
Ghostly shapes began to fill the chamber, becoming darker and more substantial. Phantom guards in black mail lined the walls, holding gleaming halberds. In the empty wooden seat before him, an image of Lord Raedel materialized, a stout man with a blunt, unforgiving face. He scowled past Aeron. Turning his head, Aeron saw the tall figure of a proud, golden-haired man in chains. A cold lance of pain seared his heart. "Father?" he whispered. Behind Stiche Morieth, a young and beautiful woman stood holding the hand of a small, thin boy with a bright mass of yellow curls atop his head. Aeron realized that he was looking at himself as he appeared that day.
The wraiths ignored him. In an eerie absence of sound, Raedel stood and spoke, his eyes cold flecks of granite in his stone face. The beautiful woman sagged to her knees, her open mouth wailing in perfect silence. The boy hid his face in her skirts. The guards seized Stiche by his chains and dragged him away.
The scene faded suddenly, the ghostly figures vanishing. Aeron reeled and shifted his weight. The rough scrape of iron on iron startled him. He looked down and saw that he was chained at his wrists and ankles. The silence was gone, broken by a murmur of voices and clattering weapons and armor. His eyes leapt to the wooden seat, where Phoros Raedel, no phantom but a real and living enemy, leaned back, sneering at him. "Are you prepared to follow your father to the gallows, Morieth?" he hissed. "We should've let you swing the same day he danced on the rope."
Aeron tried to retreat, but the shackles held him fast. Rusty iron abraded his wrists. "Damn you, Phoros!"
"Silence!" Phoros gestured at the guards on either side and rose from his seat. "Take him to the gallows."
Two heavyset guardsmen in black armor caught his arms and dragged him backward, through the hall's great doors and into the bright sunlight of the castle courtyard. Phoros sauntered after him, one hand cocked on the hilt of his sword. Aeron tried to struggle, but it was no use. The guardsmen merely tightened their grip. Their boots clomped on the wooden steps of the gibbet. The weathered planks barked his shins as he tried to get his feet under him. "Let me go!" he roared in desperate fury.
You can stop this, Aeron, said the wraith of Fineghal. The elven lord watched dispassionately from the side, his arms folded. If you have the will, you can end this or turn it to any course you desire. Defend yourself, escape, do anything you want.
"But how?" Aeron shouted. One of the faceless guards pinned his arms, while the other slipped the coarse noose over his head. "What do I do?"
Magic begins in the heart and is shaped by the will. Decide what you want, then want it with all your being. Use your will to shape it into what you need.
Aeron gagged as the noose was drawn tight around his neck. For a moment he panicked, too stricken with terror to do anything except thrash and struggle, but then he tried to make sense of Fineghal's cryptic words. Decide what you want. . . . Right now, he wanted the noose off his neck and the fetters removed from his limbs. The guards stepped back, clearing the gallows for its grisly task. The structure creaked and swayed slightly in the wind. He kept his attention on the manacles, fiercely wishing them to fall open.
A faint vibration or prickling seemed to hum softly in the center of his chest.
He sharpened his desire to a white-hot fury, driven by his old grief for his parents and his simple desire to live. He became aware of a sea of discordant melodies surrounding him, a chaotic maelstrom of light and life and energy. The wind currents danced and sang in his ears. The faded life of the wood that made up the gallows smoldered dimly, a memory of water and sunlight. Multicolored auras burned around each of the men who stood by the scene, the potent fire of their life-forces burning like brands in the night. The rush he felt in his heart was the echo of his own life, the great magical power of being.
Aeron flailed out, trying to seize the strongest auras and bend them to his will. They seemed to slip through his grasp, and he felt panic rising in his throat.
Shape yourself to the Weave, Aeron. No one can bend the Weave to himself