The wind drew tears from his eyes, but he stood motionless, absorbing every detail. Once, long ago, a fortification here commanded the entrance of Cimbar's harbor. A low stone rampart of great age edged the hilltop. Long buildings of rough stone blocks formed a wide quadrangle, with a large, impressive hall of some kind in the center. A six-foot wall of the same fieldstone ringed the buildings, broken by a couple of wrought-iron gates.

To his right, the ruins of the Broken Pyramid stood to the south of the college buildings, a tumbled mound of weed-grown rubble that divided the mages' school from the rest of the university and Old Cimbar below. He could feel the Weave that surrounded the place, the subtle demands of existing spells, the bright surges of spells being worked nearby even as he watched, and the dim remembrance of unimaginable power in the ruins of the pyramid.

After a long moment, Aeron shook himself and set off for the nearest gatehouse. Two soldiers in gleaming breastplates stood guard, sheltering inside the small building. As Aeron approached, they barred his way. "Halt and state your business," said one.

"I'm here to study at the college," Aeron answered.

The guards laughed. "If I had a silver talent for every waif that marches up here to become an archmage, I'd be a wealthy man," one remarked. "Go away."

"I have a letter of introduction," Aeron said. "Can you tell me where to find Telemachon?"

"That would be Master or Lord Telemachon to you, pup," growled the second guard. "Let's see it."

Aeron reached into his tunic and pulled out the letter Fineghal had left for him. The parchment had a golden gleam in the afternoon light. He handed it to the guard.

The guard scrutinized the letter. "What's this chicken scratching?" he said, pointing at the name.

"It's written in Espruar. Elvish."

The guards exchanged a look. "All right," one said. "Come with me." Leaving his fellow behind to mind the gate, he led Aeron into the college grounds.

They followed a paved path to the southernmost building. As they climbed the shallow steps to the hall, a lean man in robes of red brocade emerged. His face was swarthy and crooked, with beetling brows, impenetrable eyes, and a bristling halo of tightly curled, oiled locks that continued into a carefully cropped beard. A fierce yellow grin seemed to be sculpted in his saturnine features, as if the greatest challenges of power and circumstance afforded him boundless amusement. "Ho! What have we here?" he called.

"Some serf with a letter for Master Telemachon, Lord Oriseus," the guardsman answered. "He wants to enroll."

"A new student?" Lord Oriseus turned his attention to Aeron, making a show of examining him from head to toe. With comic exaggeration, he tsk-tsked his imaginary findings. "I see that the pool of undiscovered talent in this world grows shallow indeed. What's your name, lad?"

"Aeron Morieth, sir."

"May I see the mysterious missive, good Corden?"

"Of course, Lord Oriseus." The guard handed Aeron's letter to the magician. "I was going to escort the boy to Master Telemachon's quarters, my lord."

With no hint of humor, Oriseus weighed the parchment in his hand, his brow furrowed as unknown thoughts gathered behind his features. For a moment, Aeron feared that he would impulsively break the seal and read it himself, but with a sudden flourish, Oriseus returned the letter to Aeron. "Then do so, by all means," he replied to the guard. To Aeron, he said, "It is irregular for a fish to find his way into our little pond with nothing more than an elven letter, but I suspect that there is more to you than meets the eye, Aeron Morieth." With that, he sketched an outrageous bow and capered off, bubbling with a good humor that encompassed any who passed near.

"Who was that?" Aeron asked the guard, more than a little astounded by the master's exaggerated greeting.

"Lord Oriseus, High Conjuror and a senator of the city. Remember his face. He could be one of your instructors."

"I will," Aeron promised. He followed the guard into the hall. While the drab buildings of the college seemed to be nothing more than fieldstone barracks on the outside, the interior was much more lavishly appointed. The floors were made of gleaming hardwood; rich, dark paneling and crowded bookshelves covered the walls. High, narrow windows allowed symmetrical squares of sunlight to fall across the dark corridor. A melange of dust, oil, and aromatic wood created a subtle odor that Aeron found distinctly pleasant.

Corden led him past several chambers, mostly studies and reading rooms, to a paneled door at the end of the hall. The guard knocked at the door. "Master Telemachon? I have a lad here with a letter addressed to you."

"Show the boy in, good Corden." The voice quavered with age. The guardsman gestured at Aeron and followed him in. This room was a personal study, with tall windows of leaded glass that rattled in the winter wind. A rotund, stoop-shouldered man with watery eyes and a mere wisp of white hair clinging to his wattled head sat at a small writing desk, scratching at a thick journal with a sharp quill. With a heavy sigh, he set down his pen and rose to face Aeron. Telemachon was dressed in heavy robes that resembled Oriseus's in cut and style, but his were light blue in color, and he draped a long hood of indigo around his shoulders. He eyed Aeron for a long moment and said, "Wait outside, Corden."

"Of course, m'lord." The guardsman withdrew.

The old master held out his hand. "Your letter, lad?"

"Yes, my lord," Aeron replied. He quickly stepped forward and handed the parchment to Telemachon. "It's from Fineghal Caillaen, of the Maerchwood."

"Fineghal ..." The master frowned. Moving over to stand in the light of one of the windows, he broke the seal and perused the letter several times. When he finished, he glanced up to meet Aeron's gaze. Aeron was surprised to see that some of the weakness and uncertainty in the older man's expression had vanished. "You are Aeron Morieth?"

'Yes, m'lord."

"Do you know anything of the contents of this letter?"

"No, m'lord. Fineghal only told me that it was a letter of introduction, and that I could show it to you to gain admittance to the College of Mages."

"I knew Fineghal a long, long time ago," Telemachon mused. "My studies led me to his doorstep more than forty years ago. Is he well?"

"I haven't seen him in three months, but the last time we parted, he was in good health," Aeron said.

"Good," grunted Telemachon. He faced the door and raised his voice slightly. "Corden!"

The door cracked. 'Yes, Lord Telemachon?"

"Bring Melisanda here, please." Telemachon turned back to Aeron as the guard disappeared. He paced ponderously back and forth, hands clasped behind his back. "Fineghal's taught other students before you, Aeron," he said. "I've never known him to send an apprentice on to study elsewhere. He finishes what he begins."

Aeron shifted nervously. "I wanted to learn more than he was willing to teach."

"Oh?" The master glanced at him. "Very well. I don't set much store by what you may or may not have done before you walked through that door. That includes any learning or skill with the art you may think you already possess." He held up the parchment. "Fineghal says that you must be instructed, and he cannot do it himself. For his sake, I will allow you to remain here as a student."

Aeron let a breath of relief escape from his lips.

"Don't relax just yet, Aeron. I have no idea who you are, what you know, or what you may be capable of learning. Without Fineghal's letter, you would not be a potential student. And without his offer to compensate me for your tuition, you would not be allowed to remain."

"Tuition?"

Telemachon smiled humorlessly. "It is not insignificant. But I will sponsor you, since Fineghal asks it of me."