THE SOULFORGE

Chapter 1

Raist! Over here!" Caramon waved from the front of the farmer's cart, which he was driving. At the age of thirteen, so tall and broad and muscular that he often passed for much older, Caramon had become Farmer Sedge's top field hand.

Caramon's hair curled on his brow in soft auburn rings, his eyes were cheerful, friendly, and guileless: gullible. The children adored him, and so did every shyster, beggar, and con artist that passed through Solace. He was unusually strong for his age, also unusually gentle. He had a formidable temper when riled, but the fuse was buried so deep and took so long to burn that Caramon usually realized he was angry only when the quarrel had long since ended.

The only time his anger exploded was when someone threatened his twin.

Raistlin lifted his hand to acknowledge his brother's shout. He was glad to see Caramon, glad to see a friendly face.

Seven winters ago, Raistlin had decided that he must board at Master Theobald's school during the coldest months of the year, an arrangement that meant for the first time in their lives the twin brothers were separated.

Seven winters passed, with Raistlin absent from his home. In springtime, like this spring, when the sun melted the frozen roads and brought the first green and golden buds to the vallenwoods, the twins were reunited.

Long ago, Raistlin had given up secretly hoping that someday he would look into a mirror and see in himself the image of his handsome twin. Raistlin, with his fine-boned features and large eyes, his soft-to-the-touch reddish hair that brushed his shoulders, would have been the more handsome of the two but for his eyes. They held the gaze too long, stared too deeply, saw too much, and there was always the faint hint of scorn in them, for he saw clearly the shams and artifices and absurdities of people and was both amused and disgusted with them.

Jumping down from the cart, Caramon gave his brother a boisterous hug, which Raistlin did not return. He used the bundle of clothes he held in both arms as an excuse to avoid an overt show of affection, a show Raistlin found undignified and annoying. His body stiffened in his brother's embrace, but Caramon was too excited to notice. He grabbed the bundle, flung it in the back of the cart.

"C'mon, I'll help you up," Caramon offered.

Raistlin was beginning to think he wasn't as glad to see his twin as he'd first imagined. He had forgotten how irritating Caramon could be.

"I'm perfectly capable of climbing onto a farm cart without assistance," Raistlin returned. "Oh, sure, Raist." Caramon grinned, not the least offended. He was too stupid to be offended.

Raistlin pulled himself up onto the cart. Caramon bounded up into the driver's seat. Grasping the reins, he made clucking sounds with his tongue at the horse, turned the beast around, and started back up the road toward Solace.

"What's that?" Caramon jerked his head around, looked behind him at the school. "Pay no attention to them, my brother," Raistlin said quietly.

Classes were over. The master usually took advantage of this time of day to "meditate," which meant that he could be found in the library with a closed book and an open bottle of the port wine for which Northern Ergoth was famous. He would remain in his meditative state until dinner, when the housekeeper would awaken him. The boys were supposed to use this time for study, but Master Theobald never checked on them, and so they were left to their own devices. Today a group had gathered at the back of the school to bid farewell to Raistlin.

"'Bye, Sly!" they were yelling in unison, the cry being led by their instigator, a tall boy with carrot- orange hair and freckles, who was new to the school.

"Sly!" Caramon looked at his brother. "They mean you, don't they?" His brows came together in an angry scowl. "Whoa, there!" He brought the cart to a halt.

"Caramon, let it pass," Raistlin said, placing his hand on his brother's muscular arm.

"I won't, Raist," Caramon returned. "They shouldn't call you mimes like that!" His hands clenched into fists that, for a thirteen-year-old, were formidable.

"Caramon, no!" Raistlin ordered sharply. "I will deal with them in my own time, in my own way."

"Are you sure, Raist?" Caramon was glaring back at the taunting boys. "They won't call you names like that if their lips are split open."

"Not today, perhaps," Raistlin said. "But I have to go back to them tomorrow. Now, drive on. I want to reach home before dark."

Caramon obeyed. He always obeyed when his twin commanded. Raistlin was the acknowledged thinker of the two, a fact that Caramon cheerfully admitted. Caramon had come to depend on Raistlin's guidance in most areas of life, including the games they played with the other boys, games such as Goblin Ball, Kender Keep Away, and Thane Beneath the Mountain. Due to his frail health, Raistlin could not participate in such exuberant sports, but he watched intently. His quick mind developed strategies for winning, which he passed on to his brother.

Minus Raistlin's tutelage, Caramon would mistakenly score goals for his opponents in Goblin Ball. He nearly always ended up being the kender in Kender Keep Away, and he constantly fell victim to the military tactics of the older Sturm Brightblade in Thane Beneath the Mountain. When Raistlin was there to remind him which end of the field was which, and to offer cunning ploys to outwit his opponents, Caramon was the winner more often than not.

Once again he clucked at the horse. The cart rolled down the rutted road. The catcalls ended. The boys grew bored and turned to other sport.

"I don't understand why you didn't let me pound them," Caramon complained.

Because, Raistlin answered silently, I know what would happen, how it would end. You would

"pound them," as you so elegantly put it, my brother. Then you would help them to their feet, slap them on their backs, tell them you know they didn't mean it, and in the end you would all be the best of friends.

Except for me. Except for the "Sly One."

No, the lesson will be mine to teach. They will learn what it means to be sly.

He might have continued to sit, brooding and plotting and mulling over such wrongs, but for his brother, who was rattling on about their parents, their friends, and the fine day. Caramon's cheerful gossip teased his brother out of his ill humor. The air was soft and warm and smelled of growing things, compounded with horse and newly mown grass, much better smells than that of cooked cabbage and boys who bathed only once a week.

Raistlin breathed deeply of the soft, fragrant air and didn't cough. The sunshine warmed him pleasantly, and he found himself listening with keen enjoyment to his brother's conversation.

"Father's been gone these last three weeks and likely won't be back until the end of the month. Mother remembered that you were coming home today. She's been a lot better lately, Raist. You'll notice the change. Ever since the Widow Judith started coming to stay with her when she has her bad days."

"Widow Judith?" said Raistlin sharply. "Who's Judith? And what do you mean, stay with Mother when she has her bad days? What about you and Father?"

Caramon shifted uncomfortably on his seat. "It was a hard winter, Raist. You were gone. Father had to work. He couldn't take off or we would have starved. When Farmer Sedge was snowed in and didn't need me, I got a job in the stables, feeding the horses and mucking out. We tried leaving Mother alone, but-well, it wasn't working. One day she tipped over a candle and didn't notice. It nearly burned down the house. We did the best we could, Raist."

Raistlin said nothing. He sat on the cart, grimly silent, angry at his father and brother. They should not have left his mother in the care of strangers. He was angry at himself. He should not have left her.

"The Widow Judith's real nice, Raist," Caramon went on defensively. "Mother likes her a lot. Judith comes every morning, and she helps Mother dress and fixes her hair. She makes her eat something, and then they do sewing and stuff like that. Judith talks to Mother a lot and keeps her from going into her fits." He glanced uneasily at his brother. "Sorry, I mean trances."

"What do they talk about?" Raistlin asked.

Caramon looked startled. "I dunno. Female stuff, I guess. I never listened." "And how can we afford to pay this woman?"

Caramon grinned. "We don't pay her. That's what's great about this, Raist! She does it for nothing." "Since when have we lived off charity?" Raistlin demanded.

"It's not charity, Raist. We offered to pay her, but she wouldn't take it. She helps others as part of her religion-that new order we heard about in Haven. The Belzorites or some such thing. She's one of them."

"I don't like this," Raistlin said, frowning. "No one does something for nothing. What is she after?"

"After? What could she be after? It's not like we have a house crammed with jewels. The Widow Judith's just a nice person, Raist. Can't you believe that?"

Apparently Raistlin could not, for he continued to ask questions. "How did you come across such a 'nice person,' my brother?"

"Actually, she came to us," Caramon said after taking a moment to recollect. "She came to the door one day and said that she'd heard Mother wasn't feeling well. She knew we menfolk"-Caramon spoke the plural with a touch of pride- "needed to be out working and said that she'd be glad to sit with Mother while we were gone. She told us she was a widow lady, her own man was dead, her children grown and moved on. She was lonely herself. And the High Priest of Belzor had commanded her to help others."

"Who is Belzor?" Raistlin asked suspiciously.

By this time, even Caramon's patience was exhausted.

"Name of the Abyss, I don't know, Raistlin," he said. "Ask her yourself. Only be nice to the Widow Judith, all right? She's been real nice to us."

Raistlin did not bother to respond. He fell into another brooding silence.

He did not himself know why this should upset him. Perhaps it was nothing more than his own feelings of guilt for having abandoned his mother to the care of strangers. Yet something about this wasn't quite right. Caramon and his father were too trusting, too ready to believe in the goodness of people. They could both be easily taken in. No one devoted hours of her day to caring for another without expecting to gain something by it. No one.

Caramon was casting his brother worried, anxious glances. "You're not mad at me, Raist, are you? I'm sorry I snapped at you. It's just. well, you haven't met the widow yet, and-"

"You seem to be faring well, my brother," Raistlin interrupted. He did not want to hear any more about Judith.

Caramon straightened his back proudly. "I've grown four inches since fall. Father measured me on the doorframe. I'm taller than all our friends now, even Sturm."

Raistlin had noticed. He could not help but notice that Caramon was no longer a child. He had grown that winter into a comely young man-sturdy, tall for his age, with a mass of curly hair and wide-open, almost unbearably honest brown eyes. He was cheerful and easygoing, polite to his elders, fun-loving and companionable. He would laugh heartily at any joke, even if it was against himself. He was considered a friend by every young person in town, from the stern and generally morose Sturm Brightblade to the toddlers of Farmer Sedge, who clamored for rides on Caramon's broad shoulders.

As for the adults, their neighbors, especially the women, felt sorry for the lonely boy and were always inviting him to share a meal with the family. Due to the fact that he never turned down a free meal, even if he'd already just eaten, Caramon was probably the best-fed youngster in Solace.

"Any word from Kitiara?" Raistlin asked.

Caramon shook his head. "Nothing all winter. It's been over a year now since we heard from her. Do you think. I mean. Maybe she's dead."

The brothers exchanged glances, and in that exchange, the resemblance between the two, not usually noticeable, was quite apparent. Both shook their heads. Caramon laughed.

"All right, so she's not dead. Where is she, then?"

"Solamnia," said Raistlin.

"What?" Caramon was astonished. "How do you know that?"

"Where else would she go? She went to search for her father, or at least for his people, her kin." "Why would she need them?" Caramon wondered. "She's got us." Raistlin snorted and said nothing.

"She'll be back for us, at any rate," Caramon said confidently. "Will you go with her, Raist?" "Perhaps," Raistlin said. "After I've passed the Test."

"Test? Is that like the tests Father gives?" Caramon looked indignant. "Miss one lousy sum and get sent to bed without any supper. A guy could starve to death! And what good is arithmetic to a warrior, anyway? Whack! Whack!"

Caramon slashed an imaginary sword through the air, startling the horse. "Hey! Oops. Sorry, there, Bess. I suppose I might need to know numbers for counting the heads of all the goblins I'm going to kill or how many pieces of pie to cut, but that's it. I certainly don't need twice-times and divisors and all that."

"Then you will grow up ignorant," said Raistlin coldly. "Like a gully dwarf."

Caramon clapped his brother on the shoulder. "I don't care. You can do all the twice-times for me."

"There might be a time when I am not there, Caramon," Raistlin said.

"We'll always be together, Raist," Caramon returned complacently. "We're twins. I need you for twice-times. You need me to look after you."

Raistlin sighed inwardly, conceding this to be true. And it wouldn't be so bad, he thought. Caramon's brawn combined with my brain.

"Stop the cart!" Raistlin ordered.

Startled, Caramon yanked on the reins, brought the horse to a halt. "What is it? You got to go pee? Should I come with you? What?"

Raistlin slid off the seat. "Stay there. Wait for me. I won't be long."

Landing on the hard-baked dirt, he left the road and plunged into the thick weeds and underbrush. Beyond him, a stand of wheat rippled like a golden lake, washed up against a shoreline of dark green pines. Pawing through the weeds, shoving them aside impatiently, Raistlin searched for the glint of white he'd seen from the cart.

There it was. White flowers with waxy petals, set against large, dark green leaves with saw-toothed edges. Tiny filaments hung from the leaves. Raistlin paused, inspected the plant. He identified it easily. The problem was how to gather it. He ran back to the cart.

"What is it?" Caramon craned his neck to see. "A snake? Did you find a snake?"

"A plant," Raistlin said. Reaching into the cart, he grabbed hold of his bundle of clothes, pulled out a shirt. He returned to his find.

"A plant." Caramon repeated, his face wrinkling in puzzlement. He brightened. "Can you eat it?"

Raistlin did not reply. He knelt beside the plant, the shirt wrapped around his hand. With his left hand, he unclasped a small knife from his belt, and, moving cautiously, careful to keep his bare hand from brushing against the filaments, he snipped several of the leaves from the stem. He picked up the leaves with the hand protected by the shirt and, carrying them gingerly, returned to the wagon.

Caramon stared. "All that for a bunch of leaves?" "Don't touch it!" Raistlin warned. Caramon snatched his hand back. "Why not?" "You see those little filaments on the leaves?" "Fill-a-whats?"

"Hairs. The tiny hairs on the leaves? This plant is called 'stinging nettle.' Touch the leaves and they'll sting you enough to raise red welts on your skin. It's very painful. Sometimes people even die from it, if they react badly to it."

"Ugh!" Caramon peered down at the nettle leaves lying in the bottom of the wagon. "What do you want a plant like that for?"

Raistlin settled himself back onto the wagon's seat. "I study them."

"But they could hurt you!" Caramon protested. "Why do you want to study something that could hurt you?"

"You practice with the sword Kitiara brought you. Remember the first time you swung it? You nearly cut your foot off!"

"I still have the scar," Caramon said sheepishly. "Yeah, I guess that's true." He clucked at the horse and the cart lurched forward.

The brothers spoke of other matters after that. Caramon did most of the talking, relating the news of Solace-those who had newly moved into town, those who had left, those who had been born, and those who had died. He told of the small adventures of their group of friends, children with whom they'd grown up. And the truly remarkable news: A kender had taken up residency. The one who'd caused such a stir at the fair. He'd moved in with that grumpy dwarf metalsmith; much to the dwarf's ire, but what could you do about it, short of drowning the kender, whose untimely demise was expected daily. Raistlin listened in silence, letting his brother's voice flow over him, warming him like the spring sunshine.

Caramon's cheerful, mindless prattle removed some of the dread Raistlin felt, dread about going home and seeing his mother again. Her health had always been failing, it seemed to him. The winters drained her, sapped her strength. Every spring he returned to find her a little paler, a little thinner, a little farther removed into her dream world. As for this Widow Judith helping her, he would believe that when he saw it.

"I can drop you off at the crossroads, Raist," Caramon offered. "I have to work in the fields until sundown. Or you can come with me if you want. You can rest in the wagon until it's time go home. That way we can walk back together."

"I'll go with you, my brother," Raistlin said placidly.

Caramon flushed with pleasure. He started telling Raistlin all about the family life of Farmer Sedge and the little Sedges.

Raistlin cared nothing about any of them. He had staved off the hour when he must return home, he had insured that he would not be alone when he first encountered Rosamun. And he had made Caramon happy. It took so little to make Caramon happy.

Raistlin glanced back at the stinging nettle leaves he'd gathered. Noticing that they were starting to wilt in the sunshine, he tenderly wrapped the shirt more closely around them.

*****

"Jon Famish," said Master Theobald, sitting at his desk at the front of the class. "The assignment was to gather six herbs that may be used for spell components. Come forward and show us what you found."

Jon Famish, red hair gleaming, his freckled face carefully arranged to appear solemn and studious- at least while it was in view of the master-slid off the high stool and made his way to the front of the classroom. Jon Farnish bowed to Master Theobald, who smiled and nodded. Master Theobald had taken › a liking to Jon Farnish, who never failed to be immensely impressed whenever Master Theobald cast the most minor of spells.

Turning his back on Master Theobald, facing his classmates, Jon Farnish rolled his eyes, puffed out his cheeks, and pulled his mouth down at the corners, making a ludicrous caricature of his teacher. His classmates covered their mouths to hide their mirth or looked down hurriedly at their desks. One actually began to laugh, then tried to change it to a cough, with the result that he nearly choked himself.

Master Theobald frowned.

"Silence, please. Jon Farnish, do not let these rowdy individuals upset you." "I'll try not to, Master," said Jon Farnish. "Continue, please."

"Yes, Master." Jon Farnish thrust his hand into his pouch. "The first plant I gathered-"

He halted, sucked in a breath, gasped, and screeched in pain. Hinging the pouch to the floor, he wrung his right hand.

"Something. something stung me!" he babbled. "Ow! It hurts like fire! Ow!" so

Tears streamed down his cheeks. He thrust his hand beneath his armpit and did a little dance of agony in the front of the room.

Only one of his classmates was smiling now.

Master Theobald rose to his feet, hastened forward. Prying loose Jon's hand, the mage examined it, gave a grunt. "Go into the kitchen and ask cook for some butter to put on it."

"What is it?" Jon Farnish gasped between moans. "A wasp? A snake?"

Picking up the pouch, Master Theobald peered inside. "You silly boy. You've picked stinging nettle leaves. Perhaps from now on, you'll pay more attention in class. Go along with you and stop sniveling. Raistlin Majere, come forward."

Raistlin walked to the front of the class, made a polite bow to the master. Turning, he faced his classmates. His gaze swept the room. They stared back at him in sullen silence, their lips compressed, eyes shifting away from his triumphant gaze.

They knew. They understood.

Raistlin thrust his hand into his pouch, drew forth some fragrant leaves. "The first plant I am going to talk about today is marjoram. Marjoram is a spice, named for one of the old gods, Majere."

Chapter 2

The first few days of the summer of Raistlin's thirteenth year were unusually hot. The leaves of the vallenwoods hung limp and lifeless in the breathless air. The sun bronzed Caramon's skin, burned Raistlin's as the two made the daily trek back and forth from school to home in the farmer's cart.

In school, the pupils were dull and stupid from the heat, spent the days swatting at flies, dozing off, waking to the sting of Master Theobald's willow branch. Finally even Master Theobald conceded that they were accomplishing nothing. Besides, there was the Wizards' Conclave he wanted to attend. He gave his students a holiday for eight weeks. School would recommence in autumn, after the harvest.

Raistlin was thankful for the holiday; at least it was a break in the dull routine. Yet he hadn't been home for more than a day before he wished he was back in school. Reminded of the teasing, the cabbage, and Master Theobald, he wondered why he wasn't happy at home. And then he realized he wouldn't be happy anywhere. He felt restless, dissatisfied.

"You need a girl," Caramon advised.

"I hardly think so," Raistlin answered acerbically. He glanced over to a group of three sisters, pretending to be wholly absorbed in hanging the laundry over the vallenwood limbs to dry. But their attention was not on shirts and petticoats. Their eyes darted daring, smiling glances at Caramon. "Do you realize how silly you look, my brother? You and the others? Puffing up your chests and flexing your muscles, throwing axes at trees or flailing away at each other with your fists. All for what? To gain the attention of some giggling girl!"

"I get more than giggles, Raist," Caramon said, with a lewd wink. "Come on over. I'll introduce you. Lucy said she thought you were cute."

"I have ears, Caramon,/' Raistlin returned coldly. "What she said was that your baby brother was cute."

Caramon flushed, uncomfortable. "She didn't mean it, Raist. She didn't know. I explained to her that we were the same age, and-"

Raistlin turned and walked away. The girl's heedless words had hurt him deeply, and his pain angered him, for he wanted to be above caring what anyone thought of him. It was this traitorous body of his, first sickly and frail, now teasing him with vague longings and half-understood desires. He considered it all disgusting anyway. Caramon was behaving like a stag during rutting season.

Girls, or the lack of them, were not his problem, at least not all of it. He wondered uneasily what was.

The heat broke suddenly that night in a violent thunderstorm. Raistlin lay awake to watch the bolts of light streak the roiling clouds with eerie pinks and oranges. He reveled in the booms of thunder that shook the vallenwoods and vibrated through the floorboards. A blinding flash, a deafening explosion, the smell of sulfur, and the sound of shattering wood told of a lightning strike nearby. Shouts of "Fire!" were partially lost in the crashing thunder. Caramon and Gilon braved the torrential rain to go out to help battle the blaze. Fire was their worst enemy. Though the vallenwood trees were more resistant to fire than most others, a blaze out of control could destroy their entire tree town. Raistlin stayed with his mother, who wept and trembled and wondered why her husband hadn't remained home to comfort her. Raistlin watched the progress of the flames, his spellbooks clasped fast in his hand in case he and his mother had to run for it.

The storm ended at dawn. Only one tree had been hit, three houses burned. No one had been injured; the families had escaped in time. The ground was littered with leaves and blasted limbs, the air was tainted with the sickening smell of smoke and wet wood. All around Solace, small streams and creeks were out of their banks. Fields that had been parched were now flooded.

Raistlin left his home to view the damage, along with almost every other person in Solace. He then walked to the edge of the tree line to see the rising water. He stared at the churning waters of the creek. Normally placid, it was now foam-flecked, swirling angrily, gnawing away at the banks that had long held it confined.

Raistlin felt complete sympathy.

Autumn came, bringing cool, crisp days and fat, swollen moons; brilliant colors, reds and golds. The rustle and swirl of the falling leaves did not cheer Raistlin's mood. The change of the season, the bittersweet melancholy that belongs to autumn, which brings both the harvest and the withering frost, served only to exacerbate his ill humor.

This day, he would return to school, resume boarding with Master Theobald. Raistlin looked forward to going back to school as he had looked forward to leaving-it was a change, at least. And at least his brain would have something to do besides torment him with images of golden curls, sweet smiles, swelling breasts, and fluttering eyelashes.

The late autumn morning was chill; frost glistened on the red and golden leaves of the vallenwood and rimed the wooden walkways, making them slippery and treacherous before the sun came out to dry them. Clouds hung gray and lowering over the Sentinel Peaks. The smell of snow was in the air. There would be snow on the mountaintop by the end of the week.

Raistlin thrust his clothes into a bag: two homespun shirts, underclothes, an extra pair of slops, woolen stockings. Most of his clothes were new, made by his mother. He needed the new clothes. He had gained in height that summer, keeping up with Caramon, though he lacked the bulk of his sturdy brother. The added height only served to emphasize Raistlin's excessive thinness.

Rosamun came out of her bedroom. Pausing, she stared at him with her faded blue eyes. "Whatever are you doing, child?"

Raistlin glanced up warily from his work. His mother's soft brown hair was brushed and combed and neatly arranged beneath a cap. She was wearing a clean skirt and bodice over a new blouse, a blouse she had sewn herself under the Widow Judith's tutelage.

Raistlin had tensed instinctively at the sound of her voice. Now, seeing her, he relaxed. His mother was having another good day. She had not had a bad day during his stay at home that summer, and Raistlin supposed they had the Widow Judith to thank for it.

He did not know what to make of the Widow Judith. He had been prepared to distrust her, prepared to discover something nefarious about her, some hidden motive for her selflessness. Thus far his suspicions had proven unfounded. She was what she appeared-a widow in her forties, with a pleasant face, smooth hands with long, graceful fingers, a melodious voice, a way with words, and an engaging laugh that always brought a smile to Rosamun's pale, thin face.

The Majere house was now clean and well organized, something it had never been before the Widow Judith's arrival. Rosamun ate meals at regular hours. She slept through the night, went to market, went visiting-always accompanied by the Widow Judith.

The Widow Judith was friendly to Raistlin, though she was not as free and easy with him as she was with Caramon. She was more reserved around Raistlin, and, he realized, she always seemed to be watching him. He could not do anything around the house without feeling her eyes on him.

"She knows you don't like her, Raist," Caramon said to him accusingly.

Raistlin shrugged. That was true, though he couldn't quite explain why. He did not like her and was quite certain she didn't like him.

One of the reasons may have been that Rosamun, Gilon, Caramon, and the Widow Judith were a family, and Raistlin was not part of it. This was not because he hadn't been invited, but because he willfully chose to remain on the outside. During the evenings when Gilon was home, the four would sit outdoors, joking and telling stories. Raistlin would remain indoors, poring over his school notes.

Gilon was a changed man now that his wife had been rescued from her storm-tossed mind, and was apparently resting comfortably in safer waters. The worry lines smoothed from his brow, he laughed more often. He and his wife could actually carry on a relatively normal conversation.

Summer work was closer to home; Gilon was able to be with his family more often. Everyone was pleased about this except Raistlin, who had grown accustomed to his father being gone, felt constrained when the big man was around. He didn't particularly like the change in his mother, either. He rather missed her odd fancies and flights, missed the times she had been his alone. He didn't like the new warmth between her and Gilon; their closeness made him feel further isolated.

Caramon was obviously Gilon's favorite, and Caramon adored his father. Gilon tried to take an interest in the other twin, but the big woodsman was very like the trees he cut- slow growing, slow moving, slow thinking. Gilon could not understand Raistlin's love of magic and though he had approved sending his son to the mage school, Gilon had secretly hoped the child would find it tedious and leave. He continued to nurture the same hope and always looked disappointed on the day when school recommenced and Raistlin began packing. But amidst the disappointment, there was now a relief. Raistlin this summer had been like a stranger boarding with the family, an irritable, unfriendly stranger. Gilon would never admit this, even to himself, but he was going to be glad to see one of his sons depart.

The feeling was mutual. Raistlin sometimes felt sorry he couldn't love his father more, and he was vaguely aware that Gilon was sorry he couldn't love his strange, unchancy son.

No matter, Raistlin thought, rolling up his stockings into a ball. Tomorrow I will be gone. He found it difficult to believe, but he was actually looking forward to the smell of cooked cabbage.

"What are you doing with your clothes, Raistlin?" Rosamun asked.

"I am packing, Mother. I return to Master Theobald's tomorrow to board there over the winter." He tried a smile at her. "Had you forgotten?"

"No," Rosamun said in tones colder than the frost. "I was hoping that you would not be going back there."

Raistlin halted his packing to regard his mother with astonishment. He had expected such words from his father.

"What? Not go back to my studies? Why would you think such a thing/Mother?"

"It is wicked, Raistlin!" Rosamun cried vehemently, with a passion frightening in its intensity. "Wicked, I tell you!" She stomped her foot, drew herself up. "I forbid you to go back there. Ever!"

"Mother." Raistlin was shocked, alarmed, perplexed. He had no idea what to say. She had never before protested his chosen field of study. He had wondered, at times, if she even knew he was studying magic, much less cared. "Mother, some people think ill of mages, but I assure you that they are wrong."

"Gods of evil!" she intoned in a hollow voice. "You worship gods of evil, and at their behest, you perform unnatural acts and unholy rites!"

"The most unnatural thing I've done so far, Mother, is to fall off my stool and nearly split my skull open," said Raistlin dryly. Her accusations were so ludicrous, he found it difficult to take this conversation seriously.

"Mother, I spend my days droning away after my master, learning to say 'ah' and 'oo' and 'uh.' I cover myself with ink and occasionally manage to write something that is almost legible on a bit of parchment or scroll. I tramp about in fields picking flowers. That is what I do, Mother. That is all I do," he said bitterly. "And I assure you that Caramon's job mucking out stables and picking corn is far more interesting and far more exciting than magic."

He stopped talking, astonished at himself, astonished at his own feelings. Now he understood. Now he knew what had been chafing at him all summer. He understood the anger and frustration that bubbled like molten steel inside him. Anger and frustration, tempered by fear and self-doubt.

Ink and flowers. Reciting meaningless words day after day. Where was the magic? When would it come to him?

Would it come to him?

He shook with a sudden chill.

Rosamun put her arm around his waist, rested her cheek against his. "You see? Your skin-it's hot to the touch. I think you must have a fever. Don't go back to that dreadful school! You only make yourself sick. Stay here with me. I will teach you all you need to know. We will read books together and work out sums like we used to do when you were little. You will keep me company."

Raistlin found the idea surprisingly tempting. No more of the inanities of Master Theobald. No more silent, lonely nights in the dormitory, nights made all the more lonely because he was not alone. No more of this inner torment, this constant questioning.

What had happened to the magic? Where had it gone? Why did his blood burn more at the sight of some silly giggling girl than it did when he copied down his oas and ais?

He had lost the magic. Either that, or the magic had never been there. He had been fooling himself. It was time to admit defeat. Admit that he had failed. Return home. Shut himself away in this cozy, snug room, warm, safe, surrounded by his mother's love. He would take care of her. He would send the Widow Judith packing.

Raistlin bowed his head, unwilling she should see his bitter unhappiness. Rosamun never noticed, however. She caressed his cheek and playfully turned his face to the looking glass. The mirror had come with her from Palanthas. It was her prized possession, one of the few relics of her girlhood.

"We will have such splendid times together, you and I. Look!" she said coaxingly, regarding the two faces in the reflection with complacent pride. "Look how alike we are!"

Raistlin was not superstitious. But her words, spoken in all innocence, were so very ill-omened that he couldn't help but shudder.

"You're shivering," Rosamun said, concerned. "There! I said you had a fever! Come and lie down!" "No, Mother. I am fine. Mother, please."

He tried to edge away. Her touch, which had seemed so comforting, was now something loathsome. Raistlin was ashamed and appalled that he felt this way about his mother, but he couldn't help himself.

She only clasped him more tightly, rested her cheek against his arm. He was taller than she was by at least a head.

"You are so thin," she said. "Far too thin. Food doesn't stick to your bones. You fret it away. And that school. I'm sure it's making you ill. Sickness is a punishment for those •who do not walk the paths of righteousness, so the Widow Judith says."

Raistlin didn't hear his mother, he wasn't listening to her. He was suffocating, felt as if someone were pressing a pillow over his nose and mouth. He longed to break free of his mother's grasp and rush outside, where he could gulp down huge drafts of fresh air. He longed to run and to keep on running, run into the sweet-scented night, journey along a road that would take him anywhere but here.

At that moment, Raistlin knew a kinship with his half-sister, Kitiara. He understood then why she had left, knew how she must have felt. He envied her the freedom of her life, cursed the frail body that kept him chained to home's hearth, kept him fettered in his schoolroom.

He had always assumed the magic would free him, as Kitiara's sword had freed her.

But what if the magic did not free him? What if the magic would not come to him? What if he had indeed lost the gift?

He looked into the mirror, looked into his mother's dream-ravaged face, and closed his eyes against the fear.

Chapter 3

Snow was falling. The boys were dismissed early, told to go play outdoors until dinner. Exercising in the cold was healthful, expanded the lungs. The boys knew the real reason they were being sent outside. Master Theobald wanted to get rid of them.

He had been strangely preoccupied all that day, his mind- what there was of it-somewhere else. He taught class absent-mindedly, not seeming to care whether they learned anything or not. He had not had recourse to the willow branch once, although one of the boys had drifted off to sleep shortly after lunch and slept soundly and noisily through the remainder of the afternoon.

Most of the boys considered such inattention on their master's part a welcome change. Three found it extremely uncomfortable, however, due to the fact that he would occasionally lapse into long, vacant silences, his gaze roving among these three eldest in his class.

Raistlin was among the three.

Outside, the other boys took advantage of the heavy snowfall to build a fort, form armies, and pelt each other with snowballs. Raistlin wrapped himself in a warm, thick cloak-a parting gift, oddly enough, from the Widow Judith-and left the others to their stupid games. He went for a walk among a stand of pines on the north side of the school.

No wind blew. The snow brought a hush to the land, muffling all sound, even the shrill shouting of the boys. He was wrapped in silence. The trees stood unmoving. Animals were tucked away in nest or lair or den, sleeping their winter sleep. All color was obliterated, leaving in its absence the white of the falling snow, the black of the wet tree trunks, the slate gray of the lowering sky.

Raistlin stood on the edge of the forest. He had intended to walk among the trees, to follow a snow- choked path that led to a little clearing. In the clearing was a fallen log, which served well as a seat. This was Raistlin's refuge, his sanctuary. No one knew about it. Pines shielded the clearing from the school and the play yard. Here Raistlin came to brood, to think, to sort through his collection of herbs and plants, to mull over his notes, reciting to himself the letters of the alphabet of the language of the arcane.

He had been certain, when he'd first marked the clearing as his own, that the other boys would find it and try to spoil it- drag off the log, perhaps; dump their kitchen scraps here; empty their chamber pots in it. The boys had left the clearing alone. They knew he went off somewhere by himself, but they made no attempt to follow him. Raistlin had been pleased at first. They respected him at last.

The pleasure had soon faded. He came to realize that other boys left him alone because, after the nettle incident, they detested him. They had always disliked him, but now they distrusted him so much that they derived no pleasure from teasing him. They left him severely alone.

I should welcome this change, he said to himself.

But he didn't. He found that he had secretly enjoyed the attention of the others, even if such attention had annoyed, hurt, or angered him. At least by teasing him they had acknowledged him as one of them. Now he was an outcast.

He had meant to walk to the clearing this day, but, standing on the outskirts, looking at the trackless snow flowing in smooth, frozen ripples around the boles of the trees, he did not enter.

The snow was perfect, so perfect that he could not bring himself to walk through it, leaving a floundering trail behind,, marring the perfection.

The school bell rang. He lowered his head against the icy flakes that a slight, rising breeze was blowing into his eyes. Turning, he slogged his way back through the silence and the white and the black and the gray, back to the heat and the torpor and loneliness of the schoolroom.

*****

The boys changed their wet clothes and filed down to supper, which they ate under the watchful, if somewhat vacant, eye of Marm. Master Theobald entered the room only if necessary to prevent the floor from being awash in soup.

Marm reported any misdeeds to the master, and so the bread-tossing and soup-spitting had to be kept to a minimum. The boys were tired and hungry after their hard-fought snow battles, and there was less horseplay than usual. The large common room was relatively quiet except for a few smothered giggles here and there, and thus the boys were extremely surprised when Master Theobald entered.

Hastily the boys clamored to their feet, wiping grease from their chins with the backs of their hands. They regarded his arrival with indignation. Dinner was their own personal time, into which the master had no right or reason to intrude.

Theobald either didn't see or decided to ignore the restless feet shuffling, the frowns, the sullen looks. His gaze picked out the three eldest: Jon Farnish; Gordo, the hapless butcher; and Raistlin Majere.

Raistlin knew immediately why the master had come. He knew what the master was going to say, what was going to happen. He didn't know how he knew: premonition, some hereditary offshoot of his mother's talent, or simple logical deduction. He didn't know and he didn't care. He couldn't think clearly. He went cold, colder than the snow, fear and exultation vying within him. The bread he had been holding fell from his nerveless hand. The room seemed to tilt beneath him. He was forced to lean against the table to remain standing.

Master Theobald called off the names of the three, names that Raistlin heard only dimly through a roaring in his ears, the roaring as of flames shooting up a chimney.

"Walk forward," said the master.

Raistlin could not move. He was terrified that he would collapse. He was too weak. Was he falling sick? The sight of Jon Famish, tromping across the floor of the common room with a hangdog air, certain that he was in trouble, brought a derisive smile to Raistlin's lips. His head cleared, the chimney fire had burnt itself out. He strode forward, conscious of his dignity.

He stood before Theobald, heard the master's words in his bones, had no conscious recollection of hearing them in his ears.

"I have, after long and careful consideration, decided that you three, by virtue of your age and your past performance, will be tested this night to determine your ability to put to use the skills you have learned. Now, don't be alarmed."

This to Gordo, whose eyes, white-rimmed and huge with consternation, seemed likely to roll from their sockets.

"This test is not the least bit dangerous," the master continued soothingly. "If you fail it, nothing untoward will happen to you. The test will tell me if you have made the wrong choice in wanting to study magic. If so, I will inform your parents and anyone else interested in your welfare"-here he looked very sharply at Raistlin-"that, in my opinion, your remaining here is a waste of time and money."

"I never wanted to be here!" Gordo blurted out, sweating. "Never! I want to be a butcher!"

Somebody laughed. Frowning in anger, the master sought the culprit, who immediately hushed and ducked behind one of his fellows. The others were silent. Certain that peace was restored, Theobald looked back at his pupils.

"I trust you two do not feel the same way?"

Jon Farnish smiled. "I look forward to this test, Master."

Raistlin hated Jon Farnish, could have slain him in that instant. He wanted to have spoken those words! Spoken them with that casual tone and careless confidence. Instead, Raistlin could only fumble and stammer, "I. I am. am ready."

Master Theobald sniffed as if he very much doubted this statement. "We will see. Come along."

He shepherded them out of the common room, the wretched Gordo sniveling and protesting, Jon Famish eager and grinning, as if this were playtime, and Raistlin so wobbly in the knees that he could barely walk.

He saw his life balanced on this moment, like the dagger Caramon stood on its point on the kitchen table. Raistlin imagined being turned out of the school tomorrow morning, sent home with his small bundle of clothes in disgrace. He pictured the boys lining the walkway, laughing and hooting, celebrating his downfall. Returning home to Caramon's bluff and bumbling attempts to be sympathetic, his mother's relief, his father's pity.

And what would be his future without the magic?

Again Raistlin went cold, cold all over, cold and ice-hard with the terrible knowledge of himself. Without the magic, there could be no future.

Master Theobald led them through the library, down a hallway to a spell-locked door leading to the master's private quarters. All the boys knew where the door led, and it was postulated among them that the master's laboratory-of which he often spoke-could be reached through this door. One night a group of the boys, led by Jon Farnish, had made a futile at-tempt to dispel the magic of the lock. Jon had been forced to explain the next day how he had burned his fingers.

The three boys in tow behind him, the master came to a halt in front of the door. He mumbled in a low voice several words of magic, words which Raistlin, despite the turmoil in his soul, made an automatic, concentrated effort to overhear.

He was not successful. The words made no sense, he could not think or concentrate, and they left his brain almost the moment they entered. He had nothing in his brain, nothing at all. He could not call to mind how to spell his own name, must less the complicated language of magic.

The door swung open. Master Theobald caught hold of Gordo, who was taking advantage of the spell being cast to do a disappearing act of his own. Master Theobald dug his pudgy fingers into Gordo's shoulder, thrust him, blubbering and whimpering, into a sitting room. Jon Farnish and Raistlin followed after. The door swung shut behind them.

"I don't want to do it! Please don't make me! A demon'll grab me sure!" Gordo howled.

"A demon! What nonsense! Stop this sniveling at once, you stupid boy!" Master Theobald's hand, from force of habit, reached for the willow branch, but he'd left that in the schoolroom. His voice hardened. "I shall slap you if you don't control yourself this instant."

The master's hand, though empty, was broad and large. Gordo glanced at it and fell silent, except for a snivel now and then.

"Won't do no good, me going down there," he said sullenly. "I'm rotten at this here magic."

"Yes, you are," the master agreed. "But your parents have paid for this, and they have a right to expect you to at least make the attempt."

He moved a fancifully braided rug aside with his foot, revealing a trapdoor. This, too, was wizard- locked. Again the master mumbled arcane words. He passed his hand three times over the lock, reached down, clasped hold of an iron ring, and lifted.

The trapdoor opened silently. A set of stone stairs led down into warm, scented darkness.

"Gordo and I will go first," Master Theobald said, adding caustically, "to clear the place of demons."

Grasping the unfortunate Gordo by the scruff of his neck, Theobald dragged him down the stairs. Jon Farnish clattered eagerly after him. Raistlin started to follow. His foot was on the top stair when he froze.

He was about to set foot into an open grave.

He blinked his eyes, and the image vanished. Before him were nothing more sinister than cellar stairs. Still, Raistlin wavered there on the threshold. He had learned from his mother to be sensitive to dreams and portents. He had seen the grave quite clearly and he wondered what it meant, or if it meant anything at all. Probably it was nothing more than his cursed fancy, his overactive imagination. Yet, still, he hovered on the stairs.

Jon Farnish was down there, except it wasn't Jon Farnish. It was Caramon, standing over Raistlin's grave, gazing down at his twin in pitying sorrow.

Raistlin shut his eyes. He was far from this place, in his clearing, seated on the log, the snow falling on him, filling his world, leaving it cold, pure, trackless.

When he opened his eyes, Caramon was gone and so was the grave.

His step quick and firm, Raistlin walked down the stairs.

Chapter 4

The laboratory was not as Raistlin-or any of the other boys in the class-had imagined. Much speculation had been given to this hidden chamber during clandestine midnight sessions in the dormitory room. The master's laboratory was generally conceded to be pitch dark, knee-deep in cobwebs and bats' eyeballs, with a captured demon imprisoned in a cage in a corner.

The elder boys would whisper to the new boys at the start of the year that the strange sounds they could hear at night were made by the demon rattling his chains, trying to break free. From then on, whenever there was a creak or a bump, the new boys would lie in bed and tremble in fear, believing that the demon had freed itself at last. The night the cat, mousing among the pots and kettles, knocked an iron skillet off the wall caused a general outbreak of panic, with the result that the master, having been wakened by the heartrending cries of terror, heard the story and banned all conversation after the candles had been removed.

Gordo had been one of the most inventive when it came to giving life to the demon in the laboratory, effectively frightening the wits out of the three six-year-olds currently boarding at the school. But it was now apparent that Gordo had scared no one quite as much as himself. When he turned around and actually beheld a cage in the corner, its bars shining in the soft white light cast by a globe suspended from the ceiling, the boy's knees gave way and he sank to the floor.

"Drat the boy, whatever is the matter with you? Stand on your own two feet!" Master Theobald gave Gordo a prod and a shake. "Good evening, my beauties," the master added, peering into the cage. "Here's dinner."

The wretched Gordo turned quite pale, evidently seeing himself as the next course. The master was not referring to the boys, however, but to a hunk of bread that he dredged up from his pocket. He deposited the bread in the cage, where it was immediately set upon by four lively field mice.

Gordo put his hand on his stomach and said he didn't feel so good.

Under other circumstances, Raistlin might have been amused by the discomfiture of one of his most inveterate tormentors. Tonight he was far too pent up, anxious, eager, and nervous to enjoy the whimperings of the chastened bully.

The master made Gordo sit down on the floor with his head between his legs, and then went to a distant part of the laboratory to putter about among papers and inkpots. Bored, Jon Farnish began teasing the mice.

Raistlin moved out of the glare of the light, moved back into the shadows, where he could see without being seen. He made a methodical sweep of the laboratory, committing every detail to his excellent memory. Long years after he left Master Theobald's school, Raistlin could still shut his eyes and see every item in that laboratory, and he was only in it once.

The lab was neat, orderly, and clean. No dust, no cobwebs; even the mice were sleek and well groomed. A few magical spellbooks, bound in noncommittal colors of gray and tan, stood upon a shelf. Six scroll cases reposed in a bin designed to hold many more. There was an assortment of jars intended for storing spell components, but only a few had anything in them. The stone table, on which the master was supposed to perform experiments in the arcane, was as clean as the table on which he ate his dinner.

Raistlin felt a sadness seep into him. Here was the workshop of a man with no ambition, of a man in whom the creative spark had flickered out, presuming that spark had ever once been kindled. Theobald came to his lab not to create, but because he wanted to be alone, to read a book, throw crumbs to the mice in their cage, crush some oregano leaves for the luncheon stew, perhaps draw up a scroll now and then-a scroll whose magic might or might not work. Whether it did or it didn't was all the same to him.

"Feeling better, Gordo?" Master Theobald bustled about importantly, doing very little with a great deal of fuss. "Fine, I knew you would. Too much excitement, that's all. Take your place at the far end of the table. Jon Farnish, you take your place there in the center. Raistlin? Where the devil-oh! There you are!" Master Theobald glared at him crossly. "What are you doing skulking about there in the darkness? Come stand in the light like a civilized human being. You will take your place at the far end. Yes, right there."

Raistlin moved to his assigned seat in silence. Gordo stood hunch-shouldered and glum. The laboratory was a sad disappointment, and this was starting to look far too much like schoolwork. Gordo was bitter over the lack of a demon.

Jon Farnish took his seat, smiling and confident, his hands folded calmly on the table in front of him. Raistlin had never hated anyone in his life as much as he hated Jon Famish at that moment.

Every organ in Raistlin's body was tangled up with every other organ. His bowels squirmed and wrapped around his stomach, his heart lurched and pressed painfully against his lungs. His mouth was dry, so dry his throat closed and set him coughing. His palms were wet. He wiped his hands surreptitiously on his shirt.

Master Theobald sat at the head of the table. He was grave and solemn and appeared to take exception to the grinning Jon Farnish. He frowned and tapped his finger on the table. Jon Farnish, realizing his mistake, swallowed his grin and was immediately as grave and solemn as a cemetery owl.

"That's better," said the master. "This test you are about to take is quite a serious matter, as serious as the Test you will take when you are grown and prepared to advance through the various ranks of magical knowledge and power. I repeat, this test is every bit as serious, for if you do not pass the one, you will never have a chance to take the other."

Gordo gave a great, gaping yawn.

Master Theobald cast him a reproving glance, then continued. "It would be advisable if we could give this test to every child who enrolls in one of the mage schools prior to his or her entrance. Unfortunately, that is not possible. In order to take this test, you must possess a considerable amount of arcane knowledge. Thus the conclave has deemed that a student should have at least six years of study before taking the elementary test. Those who have completed six years will be given the elementary test even if they have previously shown neither talent nor inclination."

Theobald knew, but did not say, that the failed student would then be placed under surveillance, watched throughout the rest of his life. It was improbable, but such a failure might become a renegade wizard, one who refused to follow the laws of magic as handed down and adjudicated by the conclave. Renegade wizards were considered extremely dangerous- rightly so-and were hunted by the members of the conclave. The boys knew nothing about renegade wizards, and Master Theobald wisely refrained from mentioning it. Gordo would have been a nervous wreck the remainder of his existence.

"The test is simple for one who possesses the talent, extremely difficult for one who does not. Every person wanting to advance in the study of magic takes the same elementary test. You are not casting a spell, not even a cantrip. It will take many more years of study and hard work before you have the discipline and control necessary to cast the most rudimentary of magical spells. This test merely determines whether or not you have what was called in the old days 'the god's gift.' "

He was referring to the old gods of magic, three cousins: Solinari, Lunitari, Nuitari. Their names were all that was left of them, according to most people on Ansalon. Their names clung to their moons, to the silver moon, the red, and the supposed black moon.

Wary of public opinion, aware that they were not universally liked or trusted, the wizards took care not to become involved in religious arguments. They taught their pupils that the moons influenced magic much the way they influenced the tides. It was a physical phenomenon, nothing spiritual or mystical about it.

Yet Raistlin wondered. Had the gods truly gone from the world, leaving only their lights burning in night's window? Or were those lights glints from immortal, ever-watchful eyes?.

Master Theobald turned to the wooden shelves behind him, opened a drawer. He drew out three strips of lamb's skin, placed a strip in front of each boy. Jon Famish was taking this quite seriously now, after the master's speech. Gordo was resigned, sullen, wanting to end this and return to his mates. He was probably already concocting the lies he would tell about the master's laboratory.

Raistlin examined the small strip of lamb's skin, no longer than his forearm. The skin was soft, it had never been used, was smooth to the touch.

The master placed a quill pen and an inkpot in front of each of the three boys. Standing back, he folded his hands over his stomach and said, in solemn, sonorous tones, "You will write down on this lamb's skin the words I, Magus."

"Nothing else, Master?" asked Jon Farnish.

"Nothing else."

Gordo squirmed and bit the end of his quill. "How do you spell Magus?"

Master Theobald fixed him with a reproving stare. "That is part of the test!"

"What. what will happen if we do it right, Master?" Raistlin asked in a voice that he could not recognize as his own.

"If you have the gift, something will happen. If not, nothing," replied Master Theobald. He did not look at Raistlin as he spoke.

He wants me to fail, Raistlin understood, without quite knowing why. The master did not like him, but that wasn't the reason. Raistlin guessed that it had something to do with jealousy of his sponsor, Antimodes. The knowledge strengthened his resolve.

He picked up the quill, which was black, had come from the wing of a crow. Various types of quills were used to write various scrolls: an eagle's feather was extremely powerful, as was that of the swan. A goose quill was for everyday, ordinary writing, only to be used for magical penning in an emergency. A crow quill was useful for almost any type of magic, though some of the more fanatic White Robes objected to its color.

Raistlin touched the feather with his finger. He was extraordinarily conscious of the feather's feel, its crispness contrasting oddly with its softness. Rainbows, cast by the globe light, shimmered on the feather's glistening black surface. The point was newly cut, sharp. No cracked and sputtering pen for this important event.

The smell of the ink reminded him of Antimodes and the time he had praised Raistlin's work. Raistlin had long ago discovered, through eavesdropping on a conversation between the master and Gilon, that Antimodes was paying the bill for this school, not the conclave, as the archmagus had intimated. This test would prove if his investment had been sound.

Raistlin prepared to dip the quill in the ink, then hesitated, feeling a qualm of near panic. Everything he had been taught seemed to slide from his mind, like butter melting in a hot skillet. He could not remember how to spell Magus! The quill shook in his sweaty fingers. He glanced sidelong, through lowered lashes, at the other two.

"I'm done," said Gordo.

Ink covered his fingers; he'd managed to splash it on his face, where the black splotches overlapped the brown freckles. He held up the scroll, on which he'd first printed the word Magos. Having sneaked a peak at Jon Farnish's scroll, Gordo had hastily crossed out Magos and written Magus in next to it.

"I'm done," Gordo repeated loudly. "What happens now?"

"For you, nothing," said Theobald with a severe look.

"But I wrote the word just as good as him," Gordo protested, sulking.

"Have you learned nothing, you stupid boy?" Theobald demanded angrily. "A word of magic must be written perfectly, spelled correctly, the first time. You are writing not only with the lamb's blood but with your own blood. The magic flows through you and into the pen and from thence onto the scroll."

"Oh, bugger it," said Gordo, and he shoved the scroll off the table.

Jon Farnish was writing with ease, seemingly, the pen gliding over the sheepskin, a spot of ink on his right forefinger. His handwriting was readable, but tended to be cramped and small.

Raistlin dipped the quill in the ink and began to write, in sharply angled, bold, large letters, the words I, Magus.

Jon Farnish sat back, a look of satisfaction on his face. Raistlin, just finishing, heard the boy catch his breath. Raistlin looked up.

The letters on the sheepskin in front of Jon Famish had begun to glow. The glow was faint, a dim red-orange, a spark newly struck, struggling for life.

"Garn!" said Gordo, impressed. This almost made up for the demon.

"Well done, Jon," said Master Theobald expansively.

Flushed with pleasure, Jon Farnish gazed in awe at the parchment and then he laughed. "I have it!" he cried.

Master Theobald turned his gaze to Raistlin. Though the master attempted to appear concerned, one corner of his lip curled.

The black letters on the sheepskin in front of Raistlin remained black.

Raistlin clutched the quill so violently he snapped off the top. He looked away from the exultant Jon Farnish, he paid no attention to the scornful Gordo, he blotted from his mind the leering triumph of the master. He concentrated on the letters in I, Magus and he said a prayer.

"Gods of magic, if you are gods and not just moons, don't let me fail, don't let me falter."

Raistlin turned inward, to the very core of his being, and he vowed, I will do this. Nothing in my life matters except this. No moment of my life exists except this moment. I am born in this moment, and if I fail, I will die in this moment.

Gods of magic, help me! I will dedicate my life to you. I will serve you always. I will bring glory to your name. Help me, please, help me!

He wanted this so much. He had worked so hard for it, for so long. He focused on the magic, concentrated all his energy. His frail body began to wilt beneath the strain. He felt faint and giddy. The globe of light expanded in his dazed vision to three globes. The floor was unsteady beneath him. He lowered his head in despair to the stone table.

The stone was cool and firm beneath his fevered cheek. He shut his eyes, hot tears burned the lids. He could still see, imprinted on his eyelids, the three globes of magical light.

To his astonishment, he saw that inside each globe was a person.

One was a fine, handsome young man, dressed all in white robes that shimmered with a silver light. He was strong and well muscled, with the physique of a warrior. He carried in his hand a staff of wood, topped by a golden dragon's claw holding a diamond.

Another was also a young man, but he was not handsome. He was grotesque. His face was as round as a moon, his eyes were dry, dark and empty wells. He was dressed in black robes, and he held in his hands a crystal orb, inside which swirled the heads of five dragons: red, green, blue, white, and black.

Standing between the two was a beautiful young woman. Her hair was as black as the crow's wing, streaked with white. Her robes were as red as blood. She held, in her arms, a large leather-bound book.

The three were vastly different, strangely alike. "Do you know who we are?" asked the man in white.

Raistlin nodded hesitantly. He knew them. He wasn't quite sure he understood why or how.

"You pray to us, yet many speak our names with their lips only, not their hearts. Do you truly believe in us?" asked the woman in red.

Raistlin considered this question. "You came to me, didn't you?" he answered.

The glib answer displeased the god of light and the god of darkness. The man with the moon face grew colder, and the man in white looked grim. The woman in red was pleased with him, however. She smiled.

Solinari spoke sternly. "You are very young. Do you understand the promise you have made to us? The promise to worship us and glorify our names? To do so will go against the beliefs of many, may put you into mortal danger."

"I understand," Raistlin answered without hesitation.

Nuitari spoke next, his voice like splinters of ice. "Are you prepared to make the sacrifices we will require of you?"

"I am prepared," Raistlin answered steadily, adding, but only to himself, after all, what more can you demand of me that I have not already given?

The three heard his unspoken response. Solinari shook his head. Nuitari wore a most sinister grin. Lunitari's laughter danced through Raistlin, exhilarating, disturbing. "You do not understand. And if you could foresee what will be asked of you in the future, you would run from this place and never come back. Still, we have watched you and we have been impressed with you. We grant your request on one condition. Remember always that you have seen us and spoken to us. Never deny your faith in us, or we will deny you."

The three globes of light coalesced into one, looking very much like an eye, with a white rim, a red iris, a black pupil. The eye blinked once and then remained wide open, staring.

The words I, Magus were all he could see, black on white lamb's skin.

"Are you ill, Raistlin?" The master's voice, as through a dank fog.

"Shut up!" Raistlin breathed. Doesn't the fool know they are here? Doesn't he know they are watching, waiting?

"I, Magus." Raistlin whispered the words aloud. Black on white, he imbued them with his heart's blood.

The black letters began to glow red, like the sword resting in the blacksmith's forge fire. The letters burned hotter and brighter until I, Magus was traced in letters of flame. The lamb's skin blackened, curled in upon itself, was consumed. The fire died.

Raistlin, exhausted, sagged on his stool. On the stone table before him was nothing but a charred spot and bits of greasy ash. Inside him burned a fire that would never be quenched, perhaps not even in death.

He heard a noise, a sort of strangled croak.

Master Theobald, Gordo, and Jon Farnish were all staring at him, wide-eyed and openmouthed.

Raistlin slid off his stool, made a polite bow to the master. "May I be excused now, sir?"

Theobald nodded silently, unable to speak. He would later tell the story at the conclave, tell of the remarkable test performed by one of his young pupils, relate how the lamb's skin had been devoured by the flames. Theobald added, with due modesty, that it was his skill as a teacher that had undoubtedly inspired his young pupil, wrought such a miracle.

Antimodes would make a special point to inform Par-Salian, who noted the incident with an asterisk next to Raistlin's name in the book where he kept a list of every student of magic in Ansalon.

That night, when the others were asleep, Raistlin wrapped himself in his thick cloak and slipped outside.

The snow had stopped falling. The stars and moons were scattered like a rich lady's jewels across the black sky. Solinari was a shining diamond. Lunitari a bright ruby. Nuitari, ebony and onyx, could not be seen, but he was there. He was there.

The snow glistened white and pure and untouched in the lambent light of stars and moons. The trees cast double shadows that streaked the white with black, black tinged with blood-red.

Raistlin looked up at the moons and he laughed, ringing laughter that echoed among the trees, laughter that could be heard all the way to heaven. He dashed headlong into the woods, trampling the white unbroken snowbanks, leaving his tracks, his mark.