THE SOULFORGE

Chapter 1

It was the sixth day of the seventh month. Antimodes stood in the window of his room in the Tower of Wayreth gazing out into the night. His room was one of many rooms in the tower open to mages arriving to study, to confer, or-as was Antimodes-to participate in giving the Test, which would be held on the morrow.

The tower's accommodations were of various sizes and designs, from small cell-like rooms for the apprentice mages to larger and more lavish rooms reserved for the archmagi. The room in which Antimodes was comfortably ensconced was his customary room, his favorite. Since the archmage was fond of travel, known to drop by at unexpected times, Par-Salian saw to it that the room was always kept ready for his friend's arrival.

Located near the top part of the tower, the suite consisted of a bedroom and a parlor, with a small balcony that sometimes overlooked the Forest of Wayreth and sometimes did not, depending on where the magical forest happened to be at the moment.

If the forest was not there, Antimodes would often conjure up a view himself. Vast fields of yellow wheat, or perhaps crashing surf, depending on what he felt in the mood for that day. The forest was not there this night, but since it was dark and Antimodes was tired from his day's travel, he did not bother with landscaping. He had been standing on the balcony, cooling himself in the evening breeze. Leaving the shutters open to keep the air circulating-it was unusually hot that night-he returned to a small desk, continued his frowning perusal of a scroll, a perusal which already had been interrupted by dinner. A knock on the door again interrupted him. "Enter," he called in an irritated tone. The door opened silently. Par-Salian thrust his head inside.

"Am I disturbing you? I can come back."

"No, no. My dear friend." Antimodes rose hastily to his feet to greet his visitor. "Come in, come in. I am very glad to see you. I was hoping we might have a chance to talk before tomorrow. I would have gone to you, but I feared to disturb you at your work. I know how busy you are just prior to a testing."

"Yes, and this Test will prove more difficult than most. You are studying a new spell?" Par-Salian glanced at the scroll on the desk, which was partially unrolled.

"It is one I bought," said Antimodes with a grimace. "And as it turns out, I believe I was swindled. It is not what the man promised me."

"My dear Antimodes, didn't you read it first?" Par-Salian asked, shocked.

"I only glanced over it quickly. The fault is mine, a fact which merely increases my annoyance."

"I don't suppose you could return it."

"Afraid not. One of those deals in an inn. I should know better, of course, but I have been searching for this spell for a long time, and she was so very kind, not to mention pretty, and assured me that this would do precisely what I wanted." He shrugged. "Ah, well. Live and learn. Please, sit down. Will you have some wine?"

"Thank you." Par-Salian tasted the pale yellow liquid, rolled it on his tongue. "Conjured or purchased?"

"Purchased," Antimodes said. "Conjured lacks body, to my mind. Only the Silvanesti elves know how to do it right, and it's becoming harder and harder to acquire good Silvanesti wine these days."

"Too true," Par-Salian agreed. "King Lorac used to bring me several bottles whenever he visited, but it has been many years since he has been to see us."

"He's sulking," Antimodes observed. "He thought he should have been elected head of the conclave."

"I don't think that is it. Yes, he did feel he deserved the position, but he readily admitted that he was extremely busy with his duties as ruler of the Silvanesti. If anything, I think he wanted to be granted the honor so that he could have politely turned it down."

Par-Salian frowned thoughtfully. "Do you know, my friend, I have the strangest feeling that Lorac is hiding something from us.

He doesn't come to see me anymore because he fears discovery." "What do you think it is? Some powerful artifact? Is there one missing?" "Not to my knowledge. I could be wrong. I hope I am."

"Lorac was always one to act on his own, the conclave be damned," Antimodes observed.

"Still, he abided by our rules as much as any elf ever abides by rules not of his own making." Par- Salian finished his wine, permitted himself another glass.

Antimodes was silent and thoughtful, then he said abruptly, "The gods grant Lorac good of it, then. He'll need it, I fear. Whatever it is. You received my last report?"

"I did." Par-Salian sighed. "I want to know this: Are you absolutely certain of your facts?"

"Certain? No, of course not! I will never be certain until I see with my own eyes!" Antimodes waved his hand. "It is rumor, hearsay, nothing more. Yet…" He paused, then said softly, "Yet I believe it."

"Dragons! Dragons returning to Krynn. Takhisis's dragons, no less! I hope, my friend," Par-Salian said earnestly, "I hope and pray that you are wrong."

"Still, it fits in with what facts we do know. Did you approach our black-robed brethren about this as I advised?"

"I discussed the matter with Ladonna," Par-Salian said. "Not mentioning where or how I had heard anything. She was evasive."

"Isn't she always?" Antimodes said dryly.

"Yes, but there are ways to read her if you know her," Par-Salian said.

Antimodes nodded. He was an old friend, a trusted friend. There was no need between them to mention that Par-Salian knew Ladonna better than most.

"She has been in fine spirits for the last year," Par-Salian continued. "Happy. Elated. She has also been extremely busy with something, for she has visited the tower only twice, and that to go through our collection of scrolls."

"I do have verification for my other news," Antimodes said. "As I had heard, a wealthy lord in the north is recruiting soldiers, and he is not being very particular about the type of soldiers he recruits.

Ogres, hobgoblins, goblins. Even humans willing to trade their souls for loot. A friend of mine attended one of his rallies. Vast armies are being raised, armies of darkness. I even have a name for this lord-Ariakas. Do you know him?"

"I seem to remember something of him-a minor magus, if I'm not mistaken. Far more interested in gaining what he wanted quickly and brutally by the sword than by the more subtle and elegant means of sorcery."

"That sounds like the man." Antimodes sighed, shook his head morosely. "The sun is setting. Night is coming, my friend, and we cannot stop it."

"Yet we may be able to keep a few lights burning in the darkness," Par-Salian said quietly. "Not without help!" Antimodes clenched his fist. "If only the gods would give us a sign!" "I'd say Takhisis has already done just that," Par-Salian said wryly.

"The gods of good, I mean. Will they let her walk over them?" Antimodes demanded, impatient and exasperated. "When will Paladine and Mishakal finally make known their presence in the world?"

"Perhaps they are waiting for a sign from us," Par-Salian observed mildly.

"A sign of what?"

"Of faith. That we trust in them and believe in them, even though we do not understand their plan."

Antimodes regarded his friend narrowly. Then, leaning back in his chair, continuing to keep his gaze on Par-Salian, Anti-modes scratched his raspy jaw. Par-Salian bore up under the intense scrutiny. He smiled to let his friend know that his thinking was traveling along the right road.

"So that is what this is all about," Antimodes said after a moment.

Par-Salian inclined his head.

"I wondered. He is so very young. Skilled, admittedly, but very young. And inexperienced."

"He will gain in experience," Par-Salian said. "We have some time before us, do we not?"

Antimodes considered the matter. "These ogres and goblins and humans must be trained, molded into a fighting force, which may prove extremely difficult. As it stands now, they would just as soon kill each other as the enemy. Ariakas has a monumental job on his hands. If rumor is true and the dragons have returned, they must also be controlled in some manner, although it will take those of strong will and courage to accomplish that! So, yes, in answer to your question, I say that we have time. Some time, but not much. The young man will never wear the white robes. You know that, don't you?"

"I know that," Par-Salian replied calmly. "I've been listening to Theobald rant and rave about Raistlin Majere for years, practically ever since he started school as a child. I know his faults: He is secretive and conniving, arrogant, ambitious, and hungry."

"He is also creative, intelligent, and courageous," Antimodes added. He was proud of his ward. "Witness his deft handling of that renegade witch, Judith. He cast a spell far above his level of ability, a spell he should not have even been able to read, let alone command. And he cast it by himself, without help."

"Which only goes to prove that he will bend rules, even break them if it suits his purpose," Par- Salian said. "No, no. Don't feel the need to defend him further. I am aware of his merits as I am aware of his weaknesses. That is why I invited him to take the Test, rather than bring him up before the Conclave on charges, as I should do by rights, I suppose. Do you think he murdered her?"

"I do not." Antimodes was firm. "If for no other reason than cutting someone's throat is not Raistlin's style. Far too messy. He is a skilled herbalist. If he had wanted her dead, he would have slipped a little nightshade into her tarbean tea."

"You believe him capable of murder, then?" Par-Salian asked, frowning.

"Who among us is not, given the right set of circumstances? There is a rival tailor in my town, an odious man who cheats his customers and spreads vicious lies about his competitors, including my brother. I myself have been tempted more than once to send Bigby's Crushing Hand knocking on his door." Anti-modes looked quite fierce when he said this.

Par-Salian hid a smile in another glass of wine.

"You yourself used to say that those who walk the paths of night had better know how to see in the dark," Antimodes continued. "You don't want him bumbling about blindly, I suppose."

"That was part of my reasoning. The Test will teach him a few things about himself. Things he might not like to know, but which are necessary to his understanding of himself and the power he wields."

"The Test is a humbling experience," Antimodes said with something between a sigh and shudder.

Their faces lengthened, they cast surreptitious glances at each other to see if their thoughts were once more traveling in similar directions. It seemed that the thoughts were concurrent, as evidenced by the fact that they had no need to name the personage about whom they now spoke.

"He will undoubtedly be there," said Antimodes in a low voice. He glanced around guardedly, as if he feared they might be overheard in the chamber, a chamber that stood alone in the topmost part of the tower, a chamber to which no one but the two of them had access.

"Yes, I fear so," said Par-Salian, looking grave. "He will take particular interest in this young man." "We should finish him, once and for all."

"We've tried," Par-Salian said. "And you know the results as well as I do. We cannot touch him on his plane of existence. Not only that, but I suspect that Nuitari guards him."

"He should. He never had a more loyal servant. Talk of murders!" Leaning forward, Antimodes spoke in a conspiratorial undertone. "We could limit the young man's access to him."

"And what of freedom of will? That has always been the hallmark of our orders. A freedom many have sacrificed their lives to protect! Do we throw the right to choose our own destinies to the Abyss?"

Antimodes was chastened. "Forgive me, friend. I spoke in haste. I am fond of the young man, though. Fond and proud of him. He has done me great credit. I would hate to see harm befall him."

"Indeed he has done you credit. And he will continue to do so, I hope. His own choices will lead him on the path he is to walk, as our choices led us. I trust they may be wise ones."

"The Test will be hard on him. He is a frail youth."

"The blade must pass through the fire, else it will break."

"And if he dies? What of your plans then?"

"Then I will look for someone else. Ladonna spoke to me of a promising young elf magus. His name is Dalamar."

Their conversation turned to other matters, to Ladonna's pupil, dire events in the world, and eventually to the area that interested them most-magic.

Above the Tower, silver Solinari and red Lunitari shone brightly. Nuitari was there as well, a dark hole in the constellations. The three moons were full this night, as was necessary for the Test.

In the lands beyond the tower, far, far away from the room where the two archmagi sipped their elven wine and spoke of the fate of the world, the young mages who were traveling to the Tower to take the Test slept restlessly, if they slept at all. In the morning, the Forest of Wayreth would find them, lead them to their fate.

Tomorrow some might sleep, never to wake again.

Chapter 2

The twins' journey to the tower took them over a month. They had expected it would take longer, for they had thought they would be traveling on foot. Shortly after their friends had left Solace, a messenger arrived to say that two horses had been delivered to the public stables in the name of Majere. The horses were gifts from Raistlin's sponsor, Antimodes.

The young men traveled southwest through Haven. Raistlin stopped to pay his respects to Lemuel, who reported that the temple of Belzor had been razed, its stone blocks used to build homes for the poor. This had been accomplished under the auspices of a new and apparently harmless religious order known as the Seekers. Lemuel had reopened his mageware shop. He showed Raistlin the black bryony, which was flourishing. He asked where they were bound. Raistlin replied that they were traveling for fun, taking a roundabout route to Pax Tharkas.

Lemuel looked very grave at this, wished them luck and a safe road many times, and sighed deeply when they left.

The two continued their journey, riding south along the western slopes of the Kharolis Mountains, skirting the borders of Qualinesti.

Although they kept close watch, they saw no elves. Yet the two were always aware of the elves watching them. Caramon suggested visiting Tanis, seeing the elven kingdom. Raistlin reminded him that their journey was secret, they were supposed to be in Pax Tharkas. Besides, he doubted if they would be able to convince the elves to admit them. The Qualinesti took more kindly to humans than did their cousins, the Silvanesti, but with evil rumors flying on dark wings from the north, the Qualinesti were wary of strangers.

On the last morning of their journey along the border, the two woke to find an elven arrow embedded at the foot of each of their bedrolls. The Qualinesti's message was clear: We have allowed you to pass, but don't come back.

The brothers breathed a little easier once they were out of elven lands, but they could not relax their vigilance, for now began their search for the wayward Forest of Wayreth. The lands in this part of Abanasinia were wild and desolate. Once the two were set upon by thieves, another time a band of goblins passed by so near that the twins could have reached out and smacked one on its scaly hide.

The bandits had thought to jump defenseless young travelers. Caramon's sword and Raistlin's fiery spells soon apprised them of their mistake. The bandits left one of their number dead on the road, the rest dashed off to bind their wounds. The goblins proved too numerous to fight, however. The brothers took refuge in a cave until the troop had marched past, heading northward at a rapid pace.

The twins spent four days searching for the forest. Caramon, frustrated and nervous, said more than once that they ought to turn back. He consulted three maps-one given him by Tasslehoff, one provided by an innkeeper in Haven, and another taken from the body of the thief. Not one of the maps showed the forest in the same location.

Raistlin soothed his brother's concerns with as much calm as he could muster, though he himself was starting to worry. Tomorrow was the seventh day, and they had seen no sign of the forest.

That night they spread their bedrolls in a clearing of scraggly pines. They awakened to find themselves lying beneath the huge, spreading bows of enormous oak trees.

Caramon almost fled then and there. The oak trees were not ordinary oak trees. He saw eyes in the knotholes, he heard spoken words in the rustling of the leaves. He heard words in the songs of the birds as well. Though he couldn't understand them clearly, the birds seemed to him to be warning him to leave.

The twins gathered their belongings, mounted their horses. The oak trees stood shoulder to shoulder, stalwart guards blocking their path. Raistlin regarded the trees in silence a moment, summoning his courage. He urged his horse forward. The oaks parted, forming a clear path that led straight to the tower.

Caramon tried to ride after his brother. The trees glared at him with hatred, the leaves rustled in anger. His courage failed him. Fear took hold of him, wrung him, left him weak and helpless, powerless to move.

"Raist!" he cried hoarsely.

Raistlin turned. Seeing his brother's predicament, he rode back. He reached out, took hold of his brother's hand.

"Do not be afraid, Caramon. I am with you." The two entered the forest together.

*****

On the seventh day of the seventh month, seven magi were ushered into a large courtyard at the base of the Tower of High Sorcery.

Four men and three women: Four were human, two elven, and one appeared to be half-human, half- dwarf, a rather unusual combination for a magic-user. The youngest by almost five years was Raistlin Majere, the only one to arrive with an escort. The others glanced askance at the young mage, observed his delicate features, his pallor, and the excessive thinness that made him appear younger than he was.

They wondered why he was here, and why he was permitted to have a family member with him. The elves were open in their disdain. The half-dwarf suspected the young man of having sneaked in uninvited, though he could not say how.

The garden courtyard in the Tower of High Sorcery was an eerie place, crisscrossed with corridors of magic. Magi passed through here regularly, traveling the magic pathways on errands to the tower or on business of their own. Those standing in the garden could not see the travelers on their hidden pathways, but it seemed to them that they could feel the breath of their passing.

The older, more experienced magi who frequented the tower grew accustomed to the sudden shifting eddies of magic that swirled about the courtyard. This being the first occasion any of the novices had visited the tower, they found the voices that spoke from nothingness, the sudden whiffs of air down the back of the neck, the half-seen flash of a hand or foot, most disturbing.

The initiates and the single lone warrior stood in the courtyard, waiting for what they hoped would be the beginning of their lives as one of this elite group of wizards. The initiates tried not to think about the fact that this might be the last day of their lives.

Caramon jumped, with a clatter of sword and leather armor, and whipped around to stare fearfully behind him.

"Hold still! You are making a fool of yourself, Caramon," Raistlin admonished as they stood waiting in the courtyard.

"I felt a hand touch my back," Caramon said, pale and sweating.

"Very probably," Raistlin murmured, unperturbed. "Pay it no mind."

"I don't like this place, Raist!" Caramon's voice sounded unnaturally loud in the whispering stillness. "Let's go back home. You're a good enough mage without having to put up with this!"

His words carried quite clearly. The other initiates turned to stare. The upper lip of one of the elves curled in a sneer.

Raistlin felt the hot blood flood his face. "Hush, Caramon!" he rebuked, his voice quivering with anger. "You are shaming us both!"

Caramon shut his mouth, bit his lip.

Raistlin deliberately turned his back on his twin. He could not fathom why the conclave had insisted on Caramon's being a part of his brother's testing.

"Unless they plan on aggravating me to death," Raistlin muttered to himself.

He tried to ignore Caramon's presence, concentrating on banishing his own nervous fears. There was no reason he should be afraid. He had studied his spellbook, he knew it inside out, could have recited his spells backward while standing on his head, if that was what the judges might require. He had proven that he could work his magic under pressure. He would not fall apart, nor would his spell fall apart, in tense situations.

He need not be concerned about his abilities to perform magic during the Test. Nor was he particularly worried about the intangible portions of the Test, the part wherein the mage learns more about himself. Introspective from birth, Raistlin was confident that he knew all there was to know about his own inner workings.

For him, the Test would be a mere formality.

Raistlin relaxed, discovered that he was actually looking forward to the Test. His worries eased, he spent the time waiting for the judges to arrive in studying the fabled Tower of Wayreth.

"I will see it often in the future," he said to himself and envisioned traveling the unseen pathways, tending herbs in the garden, studying in the great library.

The tower at Wayreth was in actuality two towers, constructed of polished black obsidian. The main towers were surrounded by a wall in the shape of an equilateral triangle, with three smaller towers located at each of the angles. The wall surrounded the garden, where grew many varieties of herbs used not only for spell components, but also for healing and cooking.

The tops of the walls had no battlements, for the tower was protected by strong magicks. The forest would not permit the entry of anyone unless he had been invited by the conclave. If an enemy did, by some mischance, manage to stumble into the forest, the magical creatures roaming within would deal with the foe.

There was need for such precautions. Long ago there had been five Towers of High Sorcery, centers for magic on Ansalon. During the rise of Istar, the Kingpriest, who secretly feared magic and the power of wizards, outlawed magic. He caused mobs to rise against the wizards, hoping to eradicate them.

The wizards might have fought back, and some advocated the use of force, but the conclave deemed such drastic action unwise. Defending themselves would result in tragic loss of life on both sides. The Kingpriest and his followers wanted bloody conflict. Then they could point an accusing finger at the wizards and say, "We were right! They are a menace and should be destroyed!"

The conclave made a bargain with the Kingpriest. The wizards would abandon their towers, retreat to a single tower located in Wayreth. Here they would continue to study unmolested. The Kingpriest, though disappointed that the wizards chose not to fight, agreed. He had already taken control of the Tower of High Sorcery at Istar, and now he looked forward to gaining the exquisitely lovely tower in Palanthas. He planned to make it a temple to his greatness.

As he entered the tower to claim it, a black-robed wizard, purportedly insane, leapt from one of the tower's upper windows. The wizard impaled himself upon the sharp barbs of the iron fence below. With his dying breath, he cast a curse upon the tower, saying that none should inhabit it except the Master of Past and Present.

Who was this mysterious master? No one could say. Certainly it was not the Kingpriest. As he watched, horrified, the tower altered in appearance, becoming so hideous in aspect that those looking at it were constrained to cover their eyes. Even then, those who saw it were forever haunted by the dreadful sight.

The Kingpriest sent for powerful clerics to try to lift the curse. Surrounded by the Shoikan Grove, a forest of fear, the tower was guarded by the dark god Nuitari, who paid no attention to prayers uttered to any god except himself. The clerics of Paladine came, but they ran whimpering from the site. The clerics of Mishakal tried to enter. They barely escaped with their lives.

When the gods cast down the fiery mountain on Ansalon, the Cataclysm sent Istar to the bottom of the Blood Sea. Quakes broke the continent of Ansalon, ripping it apart, forming new seas, creating new mountain ranges. The city of Palanthas shook on its foundations, houses and buildings toppled. Yet not a leaf in the Shoikan Grove so much as shivered.

Dark, silent, empty, the tower waited for its master, whoever that may be.

Raistlin pondered the history of the towers. In his mind, he was already walking the halls of the Tower of Wayreth, an accepted and revered wizard, when an unseen bell chimed seven times.

The seven initiates, who had been walking in the garden, visiting with each other, or standing apart, reciting their spells to themselves, came to a halt. All talking ceased.

Some faces paled in fear, others flushed in excitement. The elves, priding themselves on showing no emotion before humans, appeared nonchalant, bored.

"What's that?" Caramon asked, hoarse with nervousness.

"It is time, my brother," Raistlin said.

"Raist, please." Caramon began.

Seeing the expression on his brother's face-the narrowed eyes, the frowning brows, the hard, firm set of the lips-Caramon swallowed his final plea.

A disembodied hand appeared, floating above the roses in the center of the garden.

"Oh, shit!" Caramon breathed. His hand closed convulsively over the hilt of his sword, but he did not need his brother's warning glance to understand that he should not draw any weapon on these grounds. He doubted if he could have found the strength to do so.

The hand beckoned. The initiates drew their hoods over their heads, placed their hands in the sleeves of their robes, and silently walked in the direction the hand indicated, heading for a small tower located between the two larger towers.

Raistlin and his brother, who had been the last to arrive, brought up the rear of the line.

The hand pointed at the door in the foremost tower, a door whose knocker was the head of a dragon. No one was required to knock to gain entry. The door opened silently as they approached.

One by one, each of the initiates filed inside. Leaving the sunlit garden, they entered a darkness so thick that all were temporarily blinded. Those in front halted, uncertain where to go, afraid to go anywhere that they could not see. Those coming behind them bunched up inside the doorway. Caramon, entering last, blundered into all of them.

"Sorry. Excuse me. I didn't see-" "Silence."

The darkness spoke. The initiates obeyed. Caramon was silent, too, or tried to be. His leather creaked, his sword rattled, his boots clattered. His stentorian breathing echoed throughout the chamber.

"Turn to your left and walk toward the light," ordered the voice that was as disembodied as the hand.

The initiates did as commanded. A light appeared, and they moved toward it with quiet, shuffling steps, Caramon tromping along loudly behind.

A small corridor of stone, lit by torches whose pale fire burned steadily, gave no warmth and made no smoke, opened into a vast hall.

"The Hall of Mages," Raistlin whispered, digging his nails into the flesh of his arms, using the pain to contain his excitement.

The others shared his awe, his elation. The elves dropped their stoic masks. Their eyes shone, their lips parted in wonder. Each one of the initiates had dreamed of this moment, dreamed of standing in the Hall of Mages, a place forbidden, a place most people on Krynn would never see.

"No matter what happens, this is worth it," Raistlin said silently.

Only Caramon remained unaffected, except by fear. He hung his head, refused to look to left or right, as if hoping that if he did not look, it would all go away.

The chamber walls were obsidian, shaped smooth by magic. The ceiling was lost in shadow. No pillars supported it.

Light shone, white light that illuminated twenty-one stone chairs, arranged in a semicircle. Seven of the chairs bore black cushions, seven of them red cushions, and seven white cushions.

Here was the meeting place of the Conclave of Wizards. A single chair stood in the center of the semicircle. This chair was slightly larger than the rest. Here sat the head of the conclave. The cushion on the chair was white.

At first glance, the chairs were empty.

At second glance, they were not. Wizards occupied them, men and women of different races, wearing the different colors suitable to their orders.

Caramon gasped and lurched unsteadily on his feet. Raistlin's hand closed viciously over his twin's arm, probably hurting his brother as much as it supported him.

Caramon was having a very bad time of it. He had never taken either magic or his brother's gift for magic seriously. To him, magic was coins dribbling from the nose, bunnies popping up unexpectedly, giant kender. Even that spell had impressed Caramon only moderately. When it came down to it, the kender had not really turned into a giant at all. It was only illusion, trickery. Trickery and magic had been all muddled up in Caramon's mind.

This was not trickery. What he witnessed was a raw display of power, intended to impress and intimidate. Caramon continued to fear for his brother. If he could have, he would have snatched Raistlin from that place and fled. But somewhere in the depths of Caramon's mind, he was finally beginning to understand the high stakes for which his brother gambled, stakes high enough that it might be worth betting his life.

The wizard in the center chair rose to his feet.

"That is Par-Salian, head of the conclave," Raistlin whispered to his brother, hoping to save Caramon from yet another gaffe. "Be polite!"

The initiates bowed respectfully, Caramon along with the rest.

"Greetings," said Par-Salian in a kind and welcoming tone.

The great archmage was in his early sixties at the time, though his long white hair, wispy white beard, and his stooped shoulders made him look older. He had never been robust, had always preferred study to action. He worked constantly to develop new spells, refine and enhance old ones. He was eager for magical artifacts as a child is eager for sugarplums. His apprentices spent much of their time traveling the continent in search of artifacts and scrolls or in tracking down rumors of such.

Par-Salian was also a keen observer and participant in the politics of Ansalon, unlike many wizards who held themselves above the trivial, everyday dealings of an ignorant populace. The head of the conclave had contacts in every single government of any importance on Ansalon. Antimodes was not Par-Salian's only source of information. He kept most of his knowledge secret and to himself, unless it benefited his plans to do otherwise.

Though few knew the full extent of his influence in Ansalon, an aura of wisdom and power surrounded Par-Salian with an almost visible halo of white light, shining so brightly that the two Silvanesti elves, who held most humans in the same regard as other races held kender, bowed low to him and then bowed again.

"Greetings, initiates," Par-Salian repeated, "and guest."

His gaze went to Caramon, seemed to strike right to the big man's heart and set him trembling.

"You have each come at the appointed time by invitation to undergo tests of your skills and your talent, your creativity, your thought processes, and, most importantly, the testing of yourself. What are your limits? How far can you push beyond those limits? What are your flaws? How might those flaws impede your abilities? Uncomfortable questions, but questions we each must answer, for only when we know ourselves-faults and strengths alike-will we have access to the full potential that is within us."

The initiates stood silent and circumspect, nervous and awed and anxious to begin.

Par-Salian smiled. "Don't worry. I know how eager you are, and therefore I will not indulge in long speeches. Again I want to bid you welcome and to extend my blessing. I ask that Solinari be with you this day."

He lifted his hands. The initiates bowed their heads. Par-Salian resumed his seat.

The head of the Order of Red Robes stood up, moved briskly on to the business at hand.

"When your name is called, step forward and accompany one of the judges, who will take you to the area where the testing will begin. I am certain you are all familiar with the criteria of the testing, but the conclave requires me to read it to you now, so that none can later claim he or she entered into this unknowingly. I remind you that these are guidelines only. Each Test is specially designed for the individual initiate and may include all or only a part of what the guidelines call for.

" 'There shall be at least three tests of the initiate's knowledge of magic and its use. The Test shall require the casting of all of the spells known to the initiate, at least three tests that cannot be solved by magic alone, and at least one combat against an opponent who is higher in rank than the initiate.' Do you have any questions?"

Not one of the initiates did; the questions were locked in each person's heart. Caramon had a great many questions, but he was too awed to be able to ask them.

"Then," said the Red Robe, "I ask that Lunitari walk with you."

He sat back down.

The head of the Order of Black Robes rose to her feet. "I ask that Nuitari walk with you." Unfurling a scroll, she began to read off names.

As each name was called, the initiate stepped forward, to be met by one of the members of the conclave. The initiate was led in silence and with the utmost solemnity into the shadows of the hall, then vanished.

One by one, each of the initiates departed until only one, Raistlin Majere, remained.

Raistlin stood stoically, with outward calm, as the numbers of his fellows dwindled around him. But his hands, inside his sleeves where they could not be seen, clenched to fists. The irrational fear came to him that perhaps there had been some mistake, that he was not supposed to be here. Perhaps they had changed their minds and would send him off. Or perhaps his loutish brother had done something to offend them, and Raistlin would be dismissed in shame and ignominy.

The Black Robe finished reading the names, shut the scroll with a snap, and still Raistlin stood in the Hall of Mages, except that now he stood alone. He maintained his rigid pose, waited to hear his fate.

Par-Salian rose to his feet, came forward to meet the young man. "Raistlin Majere, we have left you to the last because of the unusual circumstances. You have brought an escort."

"I was requested to do so, Great One," Raistlin said, the words coming in a whisper from his dry mouth. Clearing his throat, he said, more forcefully, "This is my twin brother, Caramon."

"Welcome, Caramon Majere," said Par-Salian. His blue eyes, in their maze of wrinkles, peered deep into Caramon's soul.

Caramon mumbled something that no one heard and subsided into unhappy silence.

"I wanted to explain to you why we requested the presence of your brother," Par-Salian continued, shifting his astute gaze back to Raistlin. "We want to assure you that you are not unique, nor have we singled you out. We do this in the case of all twins who come to the testing. We have discovered that twins have an extremely close bond, closer than most siblings, almost as if the two were in reality one being split in twain. Of course, in most cases, both twins take up the study of magic, both having a talent for it. You are unusual in this respect, Raistlin, in that you alone show a talent for the art. Have you ever had any interest in magic, Caramon?"

Called upon to speak, to answer such a startling question, one that he had in truth never even considered, Caramon opened his mouth, but it was Raistlin who answered.

"No, he has not."

Par-Salian looked at the two of them. "I see. Very well. Thank you for coming, Caramon. And now, Raistlin Majere, will you be so good as to accompany Justarius? He will take you the area where the Test begins."

Raistlin's relief was so great that he was momentarily faint and dizzy, obliged to close his eyes until he regained his balance. He paid scant attention to the Red Robe who stepped forward, aware only that it was an older man who walked with a pronounced limp.

Raistlin bowed to Par-Salian. Spellbook in hand, he turned to accompany the Red Robe. Caramon took a step to follow his twin.

Par-Salian was quick to intervene. "I am sorry, Caramon, but you cannot accompany your brother."

"But you told me to come," Caramon protested, fear giving him the voice he had lacked.

"Yes, and it will be our pleasure to entertain you during your brother's absence," Par-Salian said, and though his tone was pleasant, there was no arguing with his words.

"Good, good luck, Raist," Caramon called out awkwardly.

Raistlin, embarrassed, ignored his brother, pretended he had not heard him. Justarius led the way into the shadows of the hall.

Raistlin was gone, walking where his brother could not follow.

"I have a question!" Caramon cried. "Is it true that sometimes the initiates die-"

He was talking to a door. He was inside a room, a very comfortable room that might have been lifted from one of the finest inns in Ansalon. A fire burned on the hearth. A table, loaded with food, all of Caramon's favorite dishes, and a most excellent ale.

Caramon paid no attention to the food. Angry at what he considered high-handed treatment, he tried to open the door.

The handle came off in his hands.

Now extremely fearful for his brother, suspecting some sort of sinister intent on Raistlin's life, Caramon was determined to rescue his twin. He hurled himself at the door. It shook beneath his weight but did not budge. He beat at the door with his fists, shouting for someone to come and release him.

"Caramon Majere."

The voice came from behind him.

Startled and alarmed, Caramon turned around so fast that he tripped over his own feet. Stumbling, he clutched at the table and stared.

Par-Salian stood in the center of the room. He smiled reassuringly at Caramon.

"Forgive my dramatic arrival, but the door is wizard-locked, and it's such a bother removing the spell and then putting it on again. Is the room comfortable? Is there anything we might bring you?"

"Damn the room!" Caramon thundered. "They told me he might die."

"That is true, but he is aware of the risks."

"I want to be with him," said Caramon. "I'm his twin. I have that right."

"You are with him," said Par-Salian softly. "He takes you everywhere."

Caramon didn't understand. He wasn't with Raistlin, they were trying to trick him, that's all. He brushed the meaningless words aside.

"Let me go to him." He glowered and clenched his fists. "Either you let me go or I'll tear down this Tower stone by stone."

Par-Salian stroked his beard to hide his smile. "I'll make a bargain with you, Caramon. You permit our tower to remain standing, unharmed, and I'll permit you to watch your brother as he takes his Test. You will not be allowed to help or assist him in any way, but perhaps watching him may alleviate your fears."

Caramon thought it over. "Yeah. All right," he said. Once he knew where Raistlin was, Caramon figured he could go to him if he needed help.

"I'm ready. Take me to him. Oh, and thanks, but I'm not thirsty now."

Par-Salian was pouring water from a pitcher into a bowl.

"Sit down, Caramon," he said.

"We're going to go find Raist-"

"Sit down, Caramon," Par-Salian repeated. "You want to see your twin? Look into the bowl." "But it's only water."

Par-Salian passed his hand over the water in the bowl, spoke a single magic word, scattered a few crumbled leaves of plants into the water.

Sitting down, planning to first humor the old man and then grab him by his scrawny throat, Caramon looked into the water.

Chapter 3

Raistlin trudged down a lonely, little-traveled road on the outskirts of Haven. Night was falling, a stiffening breeze swayed the treetops, sent autumn leaves flying. There was a smell of lightning in the humid air. He had been traveling all day on foot, he was tired and hungry, and now a storm was approaching. All thought of spending the night sleeping on the ground vanished from his mind.

A tinker he had met earlier had told him, in response to a question, that there was an inn up ahead, an inn with the droll name of the Inn Between. The tinker added the warning that the inn had an evil reputation, was known to be frequented by the wrong sort of crowd. Raistlin didn't care what sort of crowd drank there, so long as the inn had a bed beneath a roof and they let him sleep in it. He had little fear of thieves. It must be obvious from his shabby robes that he carried nothing of value. The very sight of those robes-the robes of a magic-user-would make the ordinary footpad think twice before accosting him.

The Inn Between, so called because it was located equidistant between Haven and Qualinesti, did not look propitious. The paint on its hanging sign was faded past recognition-no great loss to the art community. The owner, having expended his wit on the name, had not been able think of any way to illustrate it beyond a huge red X in the middle of a squiggle that might have been a road.

The building itself had a sullen and defiant air, as if it were tired of being teased about its clever name and would, in a fit of ill temper, tumble down upon the head of the next person who mentioned it. The shutters were half closed, giving its windows a suspicious squint. Its eaves sagged like frowning brows.

The door opened with such reluctance that Raistlin, on the first try, thought the inn might have closed down. He could hear voices and laughter inside, smell the scent of food. A second, more forceful push, caused the door to relinquish. It opened grudgingly, with a screech of rusted hinges, slammed shut quickly behind him, as much as to say, "Don't blame me. I did my best to warn you."

The laughter stopped at Raistlin's entrance. The inn's guests turned their heads to look at him, consider him, prepare to take whatever action they deemed appropriate. The bright light of a roaring fire partially dazzled him. He could see nothing for a moment until his eyes adjusted, and therefore he had no idea whether any of the guests had taken an unusual interest in him. By the time he could see, they had all gone back to doing whatever it was they were doing.

Most of them, that is. One group, consisting of three cloaked and hooded figures, seated on the far side of the room, paid him considerable attention. When they resumed their conversation, they put their heads together, talking excitedly, occasionally lifting their heads to cast glittering-eyed glances in his direction.

Raistlin found an empty booth near the fire, sat down thankfully to rest and warm himself. A glance at the plates of his fellow guests showed that the food was plain fare. It didn't look particularly tasty, but didn't appear likely to poison him either. Stew being the only dish offered, he ordered that, along with a glass of wine.

He ate a few bites of unnameable meat, then pushed the bits of potato and coagulated gravy around with his spoon. The wine was surprisingly good, with a taste of clover. He relished it and was regretting that his meager purse could not afford him a second glass when a cool pitcher appeared at his elbow.

Raistlin lifted his head.

One of the cloaked men who had been so interested in Raistlin stood at his table.

"Greetings, stranger," the man said, speaking Common with a slight accent, an accent that reminded Raistlin of Tanis.

Raistlin was not surprised to see an elf, though he was extremely surprised to hear the elf add, "My friends and I noticed how much you enjoyed the wine. It comes from Qualinesti, as do we. My friends and I would like to share this pitcher of our fine wine with you, sir."

No respectable elf would be found drinking in a human-owned tavern. No respectable elf would initiate a conversation with a human. No respectable elf would buy a human a pitcher of wine. This gave Raistlin a pretty good idea of the status of his new acquaintances.

They must be dark elves-those who have been "cast from the light" or exiled from the elven homelands, the worst possible fate that can befall an elf.

"What you drink and with whom you drink is your prerogative, sir," Raistlin said warily. "It's not prerogative," the elf returned. "It's wine."

He smiled, thinking himself clever. "And it's yours, if you want it. Do you mind if I sit down?" "Forgive me for seeming rude, sir. I am not in the mood for company." "Thank you. I accept the invitation." The elf slid into the seat opposite.

Raistlin rose to his feet. This had gone far enough. "I bid you good evening, sir. I am in need of rest. If you will excuse me "You're a magic-user, aren't you?" the elf asked. He had not removed the hood that covered his head, but his eyes were visible. Almond-shaped, they gleamed hard and clear, as if the liquid orbs had frozen.

Raistlin saw no need to answer such an impertinent and perhaps dangerous question. He turned away, intending to bargain with the innkeeper for a patch of floor near the fire in the common room.

"Pity," said the elf. "It would be your good fortune if you were-a magic-user, I mean. My friends and I"-he nodded his head in the direction of his two hooded companions-"have in mind a little job where a wizard might come in handy."

Raistlin said nothing. He did not leave the table, however, but remained standing, regarded the elf with more interest.

"There's money to be had," the elf said, smiling. Raistlin shrugged.

The elf was puzzled at his reaction. "Odd. I thought humans were always interested in money. It seems I was wrong. What might tempt you? Ah, I know. Magic! Of course. Artifacts, enchanted rings. Spellbooks."

The elf rose gracefully to his feet. "Come meet my brethren. Hear what we've got in mind. Then if you happen to run across a mage"-the elf winked-"you could let him know he could make his fortune by joining up with us."

"Bring the wine," Raistlin said. Walking through the inn, he joined the other two elves at their table. The elf, smiling, picked up the pitcher and brought it along.

Raistlin knew something about the Qualinesti from Tanis, probably knew more than most humans, for he had questioned the half-elf extensively on elven ways and practices. The three were tall and slender, as are all elves, and though most elves look alike to humans, Raistlin thought he detected a certain resemblance between them. All three had green eyes and peculiarly jutting, pointed chins. They were young, probably around two hundred. They wore short swords beneath their cloaks-he

could hear the metal strike the chairs occasionally-and probably carried knives. He could hear the creak of leather armor.

He wondered what crime they had committed that was vile enough to be sent into exile, a punishment worse than death to elves. He had the feeling he was about to find out.

The elf who had spoken to Raistlin was the spokesman for the group. The other two rarely opened their mouths. Perhaps they didn't speak Common. Many elves did not, scorned to learn a human language.

"I am Liam." The elf made introductions. "This is Micah and Renet. And your name would be?."

"Of little interest to you, sir," Raistlin replied.

"I like to know the name of any man with whom I'm

"Oh, but I assure you, it is, sir," Liam returned. drinking."

"Majere," Raistlin said.

"Majere?" Liam frowned. "One of the ancient gods was called by that name, I believe."

"And so am I." Raistlin sipped at his wine. "Though I do not claim godhood. Please explain the nature of this job, sir. I don't find the company of dark elves so appealing that I want to prolong this interview."

An angry glint came into the eye of one of the other elves, the one called Renet. His fist clenched, he started to stand. Liam snapped words in elven, shoved his friend back down in his seat. Raistlin's question was answered, however. At least one of the other elves understood Common.

Raistlin himself spoke a smattering of Qualinesti, having learned the language from Tanis. He did not let on that he understood what was being said, however, thinking he might pick up useful information if the elves imagined they could speak freely among themselves in their own tongue.

"This is no time to be thin-skinned, Cousin. We need this human," Liam said in elven.

Shifting to Common, he added, "You must forgive my cousin, sir. He's a bit hot-tempered. I think you might be a little friendlier toward us, Majere. We're doing you a big favor."

"If you are looking for friends, I suggest you talk to the barmaid," Raistlin said. "She looks as if she could accommodate you. If you want to hire a mage, then you should explain the job."

"You are a mage, then," Liam asked with a sly grin.

Raistlin nodded.

Liam eyed him. "You look very young."

Raistlin was growing irritated. "You are the one who approached me, sir. You knew what I looked like when you invited me to join you." He started to rise. "It seems I have wasted my time."

"All right! All right! I don't suppose it matters how young you are, so long as you can do the work." Liam leaned forward, lowered his voice. "Here is the proposal. There's a mage living in Haven who owns a mageware shop. He's human, like yourself. His name is Lemuel. You know him?"

Raistlin did in fact know Lemuel, having had dealings with him in the past. He considered Lemuel a friend, hoped to find out what these unsavory elves wanted, with a view toward warning him.

Raistlin shrugged. "Whom I know is my own affair and none of yours."

Micah, jerking a thumb at Raistlin, muttered in elven, "I don't much like this mage of yours, Cousin."

"Nobody's asking you to like him," Liam returned in elven, scowling. "Drink your wine and keep your mouth shut. I do the talking."

Raistlin watched blandly, with the vacant expression of one who has no idea what is being said.

Liam shifted back to Common. "Now then, our plan is this: We enter the mage's house in the night, steal the valuables from his shop, turn them into good, hard steel. That's where you come in. You'll know what's worth the taking and what isn't, plus you'll know where to sell the goods and get us a fair price. You will receive your share, of course."

Raistlin was scornful. "As it happens, sir, I have frequented the shop of this Lemuel, and I can tell you right now that you are wasting your time. He has nothing of value. His entire collection is worth twenty steel at most, hardly fit payment for your trouble."

Raistlin assumed that this would end the conversation, that he had discouraged the thieves from pursuing their nefarious scheme. At all events, he would warn Lemuel to take suitable precautions.

"If you gentlemen will excuse me."

Liam reached out, grabbed hold of Raistlin's wrist. Feeling the mage stiffen, Liam let go, though his strong, thin-fingered hand hovered near. He exchanged glances with his cousins, as if asking their agreement to proceed. Reluctantly both nodded.

"You are right about the shop, sir," Liam admitted. "But perhaps you are not familiar with what the mage has hidden in his cellar below the kitchen."

As far as Raistlin knew, Lemuel had nothing hidden in the cellar. "What does he have hidden?" "Spellbooks," Liam answered.

"Lemuel once had a few spellbooks in his possession, but I know for a fact that he sold them."

"Not all of them!" Liam sunk his voice to beneath a whisper. "He has more. Many more. Ancient spellbooks from back before the Cataclysm! Spellbooks that many thought were lost to this world! That is the true prize!"

Lemuel had never mentioned such books to Raistlin. He had, in fact, pretended that Raistlin had acquired all the books in the older mage's possession. Raistlin felt betrayed.

"How do you know this?" he asked sharply.

Liam smiled unpleasantly. "You are not the only one with secrets, sir." "Then, once more, I bid you good night."

"Oh, for the love of the Queen, tell him!" said one of the cousins in Qualinesti. "We are wasting time! Dracart wants those spellbooks delivered within the fortnight!"

"Dracart forbade us-"

"Tell him part of the truth, then."

Liam turned back to Raistlin. "Micah visited the shop on the pretext of buying herbs. If you know this Lemuel, you know that he is stupid and naive, even by human standards. He left Micah alone in the shop while he went to his garden. Micah made a wax impression of the key to the front door."

"How do you know of the existence of the spellbooks?" Raistlin persisted.

"I tell you again, that must be our secret," Liam said, a hard and dangerous edge to his voice.

Guessing that this Dracart, whoever he was, had knowledge of the books, Raistlin tried another question, asking as innocently as he could, "And what do you intend to do with these spellbooks?"

"Sell them, of course. What possible use could they be to us?" Liam smiled. His cousins smiled. The elf's tone was persuasive, he did not blink an almond eye.

Raistlin considered. He was angered that Lemuel had lied about the existence of such valuable spellbooks. But he wanted no harm to come to the mage, for all that.

"I will not be party to murder," Raistlin said.

"Nor will we!" Liam stated emphatically. "This Lemuel has many friends in the elven lands, guest friends who would feel obligated to avenge his death. The mage is not at home. He has left to visit these friends of his in Qualinost. The house is empty. An hour's work and we will be rich men! As for you, you can either take your share in magic artifacts or we will pay you in hard steel."

Raistlin wasn't thinking of money. He wasn't thinking of the fact that the elves were lying to him, that they were undoubtedly intending to use him and then find a way to conveniently get rid of him. He was thinking of spellbooks-ancient spellbooks, perhaps spellbooks that had been stolen from the besieged Tower of High Sorcery in Daltigoth, or rescued from the drowned Tower of Istar. What wealth of magic lay within their covers? And why was Lemuel keeping them secret, hidden away?

Raistlin had the answer immediately. These must be books of black magic. That was the only logical explanation. Lemuel's father had been a war wizard of the White Robes. He could not destroy the books. By strictest law, no member of one order could willfully destroy any magical artifact or spellbook belonging to another. Magical knowledge, no matter from whence it came, who produced it, or whom it might benefit, was precious and deserved protection. But he might have been tempted to conceal those spellbooks he considered evil. By hiding such books away, he could both preserve them and keep them from falling into the hands of his enemies.

It is my duty to look into this matter, Raistlin convinced himself. Besides, if I do not go with these elves, they will only find someone else, someone who might harm the books.

Thus Raistlin rationalized, but in his heart was the undeniable longing to see these books, to hold them and feel their power. Perhaps unlock their secrets.

"When do you propose to do this?" Raistlin asked.

"Lemuel left town two days ago. We are pressed for time. Tonight? Are you with us?" Raistlin nodded. "I am with you."

Chapter 4

The red and silver moons shone brightly; the orbs were close this night, as if the two gods were leaning their heads together, to whisper and laugh over the follies they viewed from high above. The silver and red light shone down on the thieves. Raistlin cast two shadows as he walked along the road. The shadows stretched before him. One shadow, tinged with silver, went to his right; the other, haloed by red, to his left. He could have almost imagined diverging paths, except that, in essence, both shadows were black.

They took a roundabout way to Lemuel's house to avoid passing through town. Raistlin did not recognize the route. They were coming from a different angle, and he was startled- startled and ill at ease-to suddenly see the mage's house loom in front of him before he was expecting it. The house was the same as Raistlin remembered, held the same appearance of being abandoned that it had worn the first time he had visited Lemuel. No lights shone in the windows, nor was there a single sound of anything living within. Lemuel had been at home then. What if he were at home now?

These dark elves would have no compunction about killing him.

Micah produced the skeleton key he had made, fitted it into the lock. The other two elves kept watch. Their cloaks were cast aside, providing easy access to their weapons. They were well equipped with daggers and knives, the weapons of thieves, weapons of assassins.

Raistlin felt a deep loathing for these dark elves, a loathing that extended to himself, for he was standing in the moonlight in the dead of night alongside them preparing to enter a man's house without his knowledge or his permission.

I should turn right now and walk away, he thought to himself.

The door opened soundlessly. Beyond, it was dark and still. Raistlin hesitated only a moment, then he slipped inside.

He could have rationalized the situation. He had come too far to back out, the dark elves would never let him escape alive. He might have continued to pretend that he was doing this for Lemuel's own good to relieve him of books which must be a burden on the mage's soul.

Now that he was here, now that he was committed, Raistlin scorned to do either. He already loathed himself for the crime that he was about to commit, he didn't intend to add to that loathing by lying about his motives. He hadn't come here out of fear or constraint, he wasn't here in the name of loyalty and friendship.

He was here for the magic.

Raistlin stood in the darkness in the mageware shop with the elves, his heart beating fast with excitement and anticipation.

"The human cannot see in the dark," Liam said in Qualinesti. "We don't want him falling over something and breaking his neck."

"At least not until we are finished with him," Micah said, with a trilling, musical laugh that accorded oddly with his dire words.

"Strike a light."

One of the elves produced quickmatch, put the match to a candle standing on the counter. The elves politely handed the candle to Raistlin, who just as politely took it.

"This way." Micah led them from the shop.

Raistlin could have supplied himself with light, magical light, but he did not mention this to the elves. He chose to save his energy. He was going to need it before this night was out.

The four left the shop, entered the kitchen, which Raistlin remembered from his first visit. They continued through the pantry, entered a door, and passed into a small storage room containing a veritable thicket of mops and brooms. Working swiftly and silently, the elves cleared these to one side.

"I see no spellbooks," Raistlin remarked.

"Of course you don't," Liam grunted, barely biting off the appellation "fool."

"I told you. They are hidden in the cellar. The trapdoor is beneath that table."

The table in question was a butcher's block, used to cut meat. Made of oak, it was stained with the blood of countless animals.

Raistlin was amused to see that the sight and smell disgusted the dark elves, who were prepared to murder humans without compunction, but who looked queasy over the idea of steaks and lamb chops. Holding their breaths against what must have been to them a malodorous stench, Micah and Renet hauled the table to one side. Both hastily wiped their hands on a towel when they had finished.

"We will put back all as we have found it when we leave," Liam said. "This Lemuel is such a stupid, unobservant little man. He will likely go for years without noticing that the books have been discovered and removed."

Raistlin admitted the truth of this statement. Lemuel cared for nothing except his garden, took little interest in magic unless it pertained to his herbs. He had probably never even looked at these books, was merely obeying his father's injunction to keep them hidden.

When Raistlin took the books to the tower at Wayreth- which he fully intended to do, confessing his own sins at the time-the conclave could inform Lemuel that the books had been removed. As for what the conclave might do to Raistlin, he considered it likely that they would reprimand him for thievery, but probably nothing more severe. The conclave would not take kindly to the fact that these valuable spellbooks had been concealed all these years. Of the two crimes, they would consider concealment the greater.

Raistlin hoped their sanctions would fall on the father, if he still lived, not on the son.

Micah tugged at the handle of the trapdoor. It did not budge, and at first the elves thought it might be locked, either with bolts or magic. The elves checked for bolts, Raistlin cast a minor spell which would ascertain the presence of magic. No bolts were visible, neither was there a wizard-lock. The trapdoor was stuck tight, the wood having swelled with the damp. The elves wrenched and tugged and eventually the door popped open.

Cold air, cold and dank as the breath of a tomb, flowed up out of the darkness below. The air had a foul smell that caused the elves to wrinkle their noses and back off. Raistlin covered his mouth with the sleeve of his robe.

Micah and Renet cast furtive glances at Liam, fearful he was going to order them to walk down into that chancy darkness. Liam himself looked uneasy.

"What is that stench?" he wondered aloud. "It's like something died down there. Surely books on magic, even human books on magic, could not smell that bad."

"I am not afraid of a bad smell," Raistlin said scornfully. "I will go down to see what is amiss."

Micah was not happy at this; he took offense at Raistlin's suggestion of cowardice, though not offense enough to enter the cellar. The elves discussed the matter in their own language. Raistlin listened, diverted by their arrogance. They did not even consider the possibility that a human might be able to understand their language.

Renet concluded that Raistlin should go down alone. It was possible the spellbooks might have a guardian. Raistlin was a human and therefore expendable. Micah argued that since Raistlin was a mage, he might grab several of the spellbooks and abscond with them, traveling the corridors of magic, where the elves could not follow.

Liam had a solution to that problem. Giving gracious permission for Raistlin to enter the cellar first, the elf posted himself at the top of the stairs, armed with a bow and a nocked arrow.

"What is this?" Raistlin demanded, feigning ignorance.

"In order to protect you," Liam replied smoothly. "I am an excellent shot. And although I do not speak the language of magic, I understand a little of it. I would be able to tell, for example, if someone in that cellar were to try casting a spell that would make him disappear. I doubt if he would have time to complete the spell before my arrow struck him through the heart. But do not hesitate to call out if you find yourself in danger."

"I feel safe in your hands," Raistlin said, bowing to hide his sardonic smile.

Lifting the skirts of his robes-gray-colored robes, now that he looked at them-holding the candle high, he cautiously descended the steps that led into the darkness.

The staircase was a long one, longer than Raistlin had anticipated, leading deep under the ground. The stairs were carved of stone, a stone wall extended along on the right side, the stairs were open on his left. He shifted the candle as he walked, sending its pale light into as many portions of the cellar as it would reach, trying to catch a glimpse of something-anything. He could make out nothing. He continued his descent.

At last his foot touched dirt floor. He looked back up the stairs to see the elves small and diminished, a far distance away, almost as if they stood upon another plane of existence. He could hear their voices faintly; they were perturbed that he had passed beyond their sight. They decided that they would go down to find him.

Flashing the candle about, Raistlin tried to see as much as he could before the elves arrived. The candle's feeble light did not extend far. Expecting to hear the elves' soft footfalls, Raistlin was startled to hear a deep booming sound instead. A blast of air extinguished his candle, leaving him trapped in a darkness so deep and impenetrable that it might have been the darkness of Chaos, out of which the world was formed.

"Liam! Micah!" Raistlin called, and was alarmed when the names echoed back to him. Nothing more than echoes. The elves did not answer.

Trying his best to hear over the rush of blood to his head, Raistlin distinguished faint sounds, as of someone pounding on a door. He gathered by this and the fact that the elves hadn't responded to his call that the trapdoor had inexplicably slammed shut, leaving him on one side and the elves on the other.

Raistlin's first panicked impulse was to use his magic for light. He stopped himself before casting the spell. He would not act on impulse. He would think the situation through calmly, as calmly as possible. He decided that it was best to remain in the darkness. Light would reveal to him whatever was down here. But light would also reveal him to whatever was down here.

Standing in the dark, he pondered the situation. The first notion that came to him was that the elves had lured him down here to leave him to his death. He abandoned this quickly. The elves had no reason to kill him. They had every reason to want to get into the cellar. They hadn't lied about the spellbooks, that much he had ascertained from their private conversations. The continued pounding on the trapdoor reassured him. The elves wanted to open that door as much as he wanted it open.

This decided, he took the precaution of moving, as quietly as he could, to put the stone wall at his back. His sight gone, he relied on his other senses, and almost immediately, now that he was calmer, he could hear breathing. Someone else's breathing. He was not alone down here.

It was not the breathing of a fearsome guardian, not the deep, harsh snufflings of an ogre, not the husky, whistling breaths of a hobgoblin. This breathing was thin and raspy, with a slight rattle. Raistlin had heard breathing like this before-in the rooms of the sick, the elderly.

Although somewhat reassuring, the sound shattered his calculations as to what he might find down in the cellar. The first wild thought was that he was about to meet the owner of the books, Lemuel's father. Perhaps the old gentleman had chosen to retire to the cellar, to spend his life with his precious books. Either that or Lemuel had locked his father in the cellar, a feat which, considering the father was a respected archmagus, was highly unlikely.

Raistlin stood in the dark, his fear diminishing by the moment as nothing untoward happened to him, his curiosity increasing. The breathing continued, uneven, fractured, with a gasp now and again. Raistlin could hear no other sounds in the cellar, no jingle of chain mail, creak of leather, rattle of sword. Above, the elves were hard at work. By the sounds of it, they were attacking the trapdoor with an ax.

And then a voice spoke, very near him. "You're a sly one, aren't you?" A pause, then, "Clever, too, and bold. It is not every man who dares stand alone in the darkness. Come! Let's have a look at you."

A candle flared, revealing a plain wooden table, small and round. Two chairs stood opposite each other, the table in between. One of the chairs was occupied. An old man sat in the chair. One glance assured Raistlin that this old man was not Lemuel's father, the war magus who fought at the side of elves.

The old man wore black robes, against which his white hair and beard shone with an eerie aura. His face arrested attention; like a landscape, its crevices and seams gave clues to his past. Fine lines spreading from the nose to the brow might have represented wisdom in another. On him, the lines ran deep with cunning. Lines of intelligence around the hawk-black eyes tightened into cynical amusement. Contempt for his fellow beings cracked the thin lips. Ambition was in his outthrust jaw. His hooded eyes were cold and calculating and bright.

Raistlin did not stir. The old man's face was a desert of desolation, harsh and deadly and cruel. Raistlin's fear smote him full force. Far better that he should fight an ogre or hobgoblin. The words to the simple defensive spell that had been on Raistlin's lips slipped away in a sigh. He imagined himself casting it, could almost hear the old man's mocking, derisive laughter. Those old hands, large-knuckled, large-boned, and grasping, were empty now, but those hands had once wielded enormous power.

The old man understood Raistlin's thoughts as if he'd spoken them aloud. The eyes gazed in Raistlin's direction, though he stood shrouded in the darkness.

"Come, Sly One. You who have swallowed my bait. Come and sit and talk with an old man." Still Raistlin did not move. The words about bait had shaken him.

"You really might as well come sit down." The old man smiled, a smile that twisted the lines in his face, sharpening mockery into cruelty. "You're not going anywhere until I say you may go." Lifting a knotted finger, he pointed it straight at Raistlin's heart. "You came to me. Remember that."

Raistlin considered his options: He could either remain standing in the darkness, which was obviously not offering him much protection, since the old man seemed to see him clearly. He could make a desperate attempt to escape back up the steps, which would probably be futile and make him look foolish, or he could grasp his courage and assert what dignity remained, confront the old man, and find out what he meant by his strange references to bait.

Raistlin walked forward. Emerging out of the darkness into the candle's yellow light, he took a seat opposite the old man.

The old man studied Raistlin in the light, did not appear particularly pleased with what he saw.

"You're a weakling! A sniveling weakling! I've more strength in my body than I see in yours, and my body is nothing but ashes and dust! What good will you do me? This is just my luck! Expecting an eagle, I am given a sparrow hawk. Still"-the old man's mutterings were only barely audible -"there is hunger in those eyes. If the body is frail, perhaps that is because it feeds the mind. The mind itself is desperate for nourishment, that much I can tell. Perhaps I judged hastily. We will see. What is your name?"

Raistlin had been clever and glib with the dark elves. In the company of this daunting old man, the young one answered meekly, "I am Raistlin Majere, Archmagus."

"Archmagus…" The old man lingered over the word, tasting it in his mouth. "I was once, you know. The greatest of them all. Even now they fear me. But they don't fear me enough. How old are you?"

"I have just turned twenty-one."

"Young, young to take the Test. I am surprised at Par-Salian. The man is desperate, that much is apparent. And how do you think you've done thus far, Raistlin Majere?" The old man's eyes crinkled, his smile was the ugliest thing Raistlin had ever seen.

"I'm sorry, sir, I don't know what you're talking about. What do you mean, how have I done? Done

Raistlin caught his breath. He had the sensation of rousing from a dream, one of those dreams that are more real than waking reality. Except that he had not dreamed this.

He was taking the Test. This was the Test. The elves, the inn, the events, the situations were all contrived. He stared at the candle flame and thought back frantically, wondering, as the old man had asked, how he had done.

The old man laughed, a chuckle that was like water gurgling beneath the ice. "I never tire of that reaction! It happens every time. One of the few pleasures I have left. Yes, you are taking the Test, young magus. You are right in the middle of it. And, no, I am not part of it. Or rather I am, but not an officially sanctioned part."

"You mentioned bait. 'I came to you,' that was what you said." Raistlin kept fast hold of his courage, clenching his hands so that no shiver or tremor should betray his fear.

The old man nodded. "By your own choices and decisions, yes, you came to me."

"I don't understand," Raistlin said.

The old man helpfully explained. "Some mages would have heeded the tinker's warning, never entered such a disreputable inn. Others, if they had entered, would have refused to have anything to do with dark elves. You went to the inn. You spoke to the elves. You fell in with their dishonest scheme quite readily." The old man again raised the knotted finger. "Even though you considered the man you were about to rob a friend."

"What you say is true." Raistlin saw no point in denying it. Nor was he particularly ashamed of his actions. In his mind, any mage, with the possible exception of the most bleached White Robe, would have done the same. "I wanted to save the spell-books. I would have returned them to the conclave."

He was silent a moment, then said, "There are no spellbooks, are there?"

"No," replied the old man, "there is only me."

"And who are you?" Raistlin asked.

"My name is not important. Not yet."

"Well, then, what do you want of me?"

The old man made a deprecating gesture with the gnarled and knotted hand. "A little favor, nothing more."

Now it was Raistlin who smiled, and his smile was bitter. "Excuse me, sir, but you must be aware that since I am taking the Test, I am of very low ranking. You appear to be-or have been-a wizard of immense skill and power. I have nothing that you could possibly want."

"Ah, but you do!" The old man's eyes gleamed with a hungry, devouring light, a flame that made the candle's flame dim and feeble by contrast. "You live!"

"For the time being," Raistlin said dryly. "Perhaps not much longer. The dark elves will not believe me when I tell them there are no ancient spellbooks down here. They will think that I have magically spirited them away for my own use." He glanced around. "I don't suppose there is any way to escape from this cellar."

"There is a way-my way," said the old man. "My way is the only way. You are quite right, the dark elves will kill you. They're not thieves as they pretend, you know. They are high-ranking wizards. Their magic is exceptionally powerful."

Raistlin should have recognized that at once.

"Not giving up, are you?" the old man asked with a sneer.

"I am not." Raistlin lifted his head, gazed steadily at the old man. "I was thinking."

"Think away, young magus. You're going to have to think hard to overcome three-to-one odds. Make that twelve-to-one, since each dark elf is four times as powerful as yourself."

"This is the Test," Raistlin said. "It is all illusion. Admittedly some magi die taking the Test, but that is through their own failure or inadvertence. I have done nothing wrong. Why should the conclave kill me?"

"You have talked to me," the old man said softly. "They are aware of that, and that may well prove your downfall."

"Who are you, then," Raistlin asked impatiently, "that they fear you so?" "My name is Fistandantilus. Perhaps you've heard of me." "Yes," said Raistlin.

Long ago, in the turbulent and desperate years following the Cataclysm, an army of hill dwarves and humans laid siege to Thorbardin, the great underground city of the mountain dwarves. Leading this army, instrumental in its formation, intending to use the army to achieve his own driving ambition, was a wizard of the Black Robes, a wizard of immense power, a renegade wizard openly defying the conclave. His name was Fistandantilus.

He built a magical fortress known as Zhaman and from there launched his attack against the dwarven stronghold.

Fistandantilus fought the dwarves with his magic, his armies fought with ax and sword. Many thousands died on the plains or in the mountain passes, but the wizard's army faltered. And the dwarves of Thorbardin claimed victory.

According to the minstrels, Fistandantilus plotted one last spell, a spell of catastrophic power that would split the mountain, lay Thorbardin open to conquest. Unfortunately the spell was too powerful. Fistandantilus could not control it. The spell shattered the fortress of Zhaman. It collapsed in upon itself and was now known as Skullcap. Thousands of his own army died in the blast, including the wizard who had cast it.

That is what the minstrels sang, and that is what most people believed. Raistlin had always imagined there was more to the story than that. Fistandantilus had gained his power over hundreds of years. He was not elven, but human. He had, so it was rumored, found a way to cheat death. He extended his life by murdering his young apprentices, drawing out their life-force by means of a magical bloodstone. He had not been able to survive the shattering effects of his own magic, however. At least, that's what the world supposed. Evidently Fistandantilus had once again cheated death. Yet he would not do so for long.

"Fistandantilus-the greatest of all magi," Raistlin said. "The most powerful wizard who has ever lived."

"I am," said Fistandantilus.

"And you are dying," Raistlin observed.

The old man did not like this. His brows contracted, the lines of his face drew together in a dagger point of anger, his outrage bubbled beneath the surface. But every breath was a struggle. He was expending an enormous amount of magical energy merely to hold this form together. The fury ceased to boil, a pot under which the fire was put out.

"You speak the truth. I am dying," he muttered, frustrated, impotent. "I am nearly finished. They tell you that my goal was to take over Thorbardin." He smiled disdainfully. "What rot! I played for far greater stakes than the acquisition of some stinking, filthy dwarven hole in the ground. My plan was to enter the Abyss. To overthrow the Dark Queen, remove Takhisis from her throne. I sought godhood!"

Raistlin was awed listening to this, awed and amazed. Awed, amazed, and sympathetic.

"Beneath Skullcap is. or shall we say was, for it is gone now"-Fistandantilus paused, looked extremely cunning-"a means of entering the Abyss, that cruel netherworld. Takhisis was aware of me. She feared me and plotted my downfall. True, my body died in the blast, but I had already planned my soul's retreat on another plane of existence. Takhisis could not slay me, for she could not reach me, but she never ceases to try. I am under constant assault and have been for centuries. I have little energy left. The life-force I carried with me is almost gone."

"And so you contrive to enter the Test and lure young mages like me into your web," said Raistlin. "I would guess that I am not the first. What has happened to those who came before me?"

Fistandantilus shrugged. "They died. I told you. They spoke to me. The conclave fears that I will enter into the body of a young mage, take him over and so return to the world to complete what I began. They cannot allow that, and so each time they see to it that the threat is eliminated."

Raistlin gazed steadily at the old man, the dying old man. "I don't believe you. The mages died, but it was not the conclave who killed them. It was you. That is how you've managed to live for so long -if you call it living."

"Call it what you will, it is preferable to the great nothingness I see reaching out for me," Fistandantilus said with a hideous grin. "The same nothingness that is reaching out for you, young mage."

"I have little choice, it seems," Raistlin replied bitterly. "Either I die at the hands of three wizards or I am to be sucked dry by a lich."

"It was your decision to come down here," Fistandantilus replied.

Raistlin lowered his gaze, refused to allow the old man's probing hawk eyes to gain admittance to his soul. He stared at the wooden table and was reminded of the table in his master's laboratory, the table on which the child Raistlin had written, so triumphantly, I, Magus. He considered the odds he faced, thought about the dark elves, wondered at their magic, wondered if what the old man had said about them was true or if it was all lies, lies intended to trap him. He wondered about his own ability to survive, wondered if the conclave would kill him simply because he had spoken to Fistandantilus.

Raistlin lifted his gaze, met the hawk eyes. "I accept your offer."

Fistandantilus's thin lips parted in a smile that was like the grin of a skull. "I thought you might. Show me your spellbook."

Chapter 5

Raistlin stood at the bottom of the cellar stairs, waiting for the old man to release the trapdoor from the enchantment that held it shut. He wondered that he felt no fear, only the razor-edged pain of anticipation.

The elves had halted their assault on the cellar doors; they had figured out that magic held them. He allowed himself the hope that perhaps they had gone. The next moment he laughed at himself for his foolishness. This was his Test. He would be required to prove his ability to use magic in battle.

Now! came a voice in Raistlin's head.

Fistandantilus had disappeared. The physical form the old man had taken had been illusory, conjured up for Raistlin's benefit. Now that the form was no longer required, the old man had abandoned it.

The cellar doors swung violently open, falling with a resounding boom on the stone-flagoned floor.

Raistlin trusted that the elves would be caught off guard by the sudden opening of the door. He planned to use these few moments of confusion to launch his own attack.

To his dismay, he discovered that the dark elves had been prepared for just such an occurrence. They were waiting for him.

An elven voice spoke the language of magic. Light blazed, a globe of fire illuminated Liam's face. The instant the door flew open, the flaming ball, trailing sparks like the blazing tail of a comet, hurtled through the air.

Raistlin was not prepared for this attack; he had not imagined the dark elves would react so quickly. There was no escape. The flaming ball would fill the room with fiery death. Instinctively he flung his left arm up to protect his face, knowing all the while there could be no protection.

The fireball burst on him, over him, around him. It burst harmlessly, its effects dissipated, showering him with sparks and globs of flame that struck his hands and his astonished face and then vanished in a sizzle, as if they were falling into standing water.

"Your spell! Quickly!" came the command.

Raistlin had already recovered from his startlement and his fear; the spell came immediately to his lips. His hand performed the motions, tracing the symbol of a sun in the air. Sparks from the fireball still glimmered on the cellar floor at his feet. He noticed, as he moved his hand, that his skin had a golden cast to it, but he did not let himself do more than remark upon this as a curiosity. He dared not lose his concentration.

Symbol drawn, he spoke the words of magic. The symbol flashed brightly in the air; he had spoken the words correctly, accurately. From the fingers of his outstretched right hand streaked five small flaming projectiles, a puny response to the deadly weapons of the powerful archmages.

Raistlin was not surprised to hear the dark elves laughing at him. He might as well have been tossing gnome crackers at them.

He waited, holding his breath, praying that the old man kept his promise, praying to the gods of magic to see to it that the old man kept his promise. Raistlin had the satisfaction, the deep abiding satisfaction, of hearing elven laughter sucked away by indrawn breaths of astonishment and alarm.

The five streaks of flame were now ten, now twenty. No longer smidgens of flame, they were crackling, sparkling white-hot stars, stars shooting up the stairs, shooting with unerring accuracy for Raistlin's three foes.

Now it was the dark elves who had no escape, no defensive spells powerful enough to protect them. The deadly stars struck with a concussive force that knocked Raistlin off his feet, and he was standing some distance from the center of the blast. He felt the heat of the flames all the way down the cellar steps. He smelled burning flesh. There were no screams. There had not been time for screams.

Raistlin picked himself up. He wiped dirt from his hands, noting once more the peculiar golden color of his skin. The realization came to him that this golden patina had protected him from the fireball. It was like a knight's armor, only much more effective than armor; a plate and chain-mail clad knight would have fried to death if that fiery ball had struck him, whereas Raistlin had suffered no ill effects.

"And if that is true," he said to himself, "if this is armor or a shield of some magical type, then it could aid me considerably in the future."

The storage room was ablaze. Raistlin waited until the worst of the flames had died down, taking his time, recovering his strength, bringing his next spell to mind. Holding the sleeve of his robe over his nose against the stench of charred elf, Raistlin mounted the stairs, prepared to face his next foe.

Two bodies lay at the top of the cellar stairs, black lumps burned beyond recognition. A third body was not visible, perhaps it had been vaporized. Of course, this is all illusion, Raistlin reminded himself. Perhaps the conclave had simply miscounted.

Emerging from the cellar, he gathered up the skirt of his robes, stepped over the body of one of the elves. He cast a swift glance around the storage room. The table was a pile of ash, the mops and brooms were wisps of smoke. The image of Fistandantilus hovered amidst the ruins. His illusory form was thin and translucent, almost indistinguishable from the smoke. A good stiff puff of breath could blow him away.

Raistlin smiled.

The old man stretched out his arm. It was cloaked in black. The hand was shriveled, wasted, the fingers little more than bare bones.

"I will take my payment now," said Fistandantilus.

His hand reached for Raistlin's heart.

Raistlin took a step backward. He raised his own hand protectively, palm out. "I thank you for your assistance, Archmagus, but I rescind my part of the bargain."

"What did you say?"

The words, sibilant, lethal, coiled around inside Raistlin's brain like a viper in a basket. The viper's head lifted; eyes, cruel, malignant, merciless, stared at him.

Raistlin's resolve shook, his heart quailed. The old man's rage crackled around him with flames more fierce than those of the fireball.

I killed the elves, Raistlin reminded himself, seizing hold of -his fast-fleeing courage. The spell belonged to Fistandantilus, but the magic, the power behind the spell, was my own. He is weak, drained; he is not a threat.

"Our bargain is rescinded," Raistlin repeated. "Return to the plane from which you've come and there wait for your next victim."

"You break your promise!" Fistandantilus snarled. "What honor is this?"

"Am I a Solamnic knight, to concern myself with honor?" Raistlin asked, adding, "If it comes to that, what honor is there in luring flies to your web, where you entangle and devour them? If I am not mistaken, your own spell protects me from any magic you may try to cast. This time the fly escapes you."

Raistlin bowed to the shadowy image of the old man. Deliberately he turned his back, began to walk toward the door. If he could make it to the door, escape this charnel room, this room of death, he would be safe. The way was not far, and though part of him kept expecting to feel the touch of that dread hand, his confidence grew with each step he took nearer the exit.

He reached the doorway.

When the old man's voice spoke, it seemed to come from a great distance away. Raistlin could barely hear it.

"You are strong and you are clever. You are protected by armor of your own making, not mine. Yet your Test is not concluded. More struggles await you. If your armor is made of steel, true and fine, then you will survive. If your armor is made of dross, it will crack at the first blow, and when that happens, I will slip inside and take what is mine."

A voice could not harm him. Raistlin paid no heed to it. He continued walking, reached the door, and the voice drifted away like the smoke in the air.

Chapter 6

Raistlin walked through the doorway of Lemuel's storage room and stepped into a dark corridor made of stone. At first he was startled, taken aback. He should have been standing inside Lemuel's kitchen. Then he recalled Lemuel's house had never truly existed except in his mind and the minds of those who had conjured it.

Light gleamed on the wall near him. A sconce in the shape of a silver hand held a globe of white light, akin to the light of Solinari. Next to that, a hand made of brass held a globe of red light, and beside that hand, a hand of carven ebony held nothing-in Raistlin's eyes, at least. Those mages dedicated to Nuitari would see their way clearly.

Raistlin deduced from these lights that he was back in the Tower of Wayreth, walking one of the many corridors of that magical building. Fistandantilus had lied. Raistlin's Test was over. He had only to find his way back to the Hall of Mages, there to receive congratulations.

A breath of air touched the back of his neck. Raistlin started to turn. Burning pain and the nerve- jarring sensation of metal scraping against bone, his own bone, caused his body to jerk with agony.

"This is for Micah and Renet!" hissed Liam's vicious voice.

Liam's arm, thin, strong, tried to encircle Raistlin's neck. A blade flashed.

The elf had intended his first blow to be his last. He had tried to sever Raistlin's spinal cord. That breath of air on his neck had been enough to alert Raistlin. When he turned, the blade missed its mark, slid along his ribs. Liam was going to make another try, this time going for the throat.

Raistlin's panic-stripped mind could not come up with the words of a spell. He had no weapon other than his magic. He was reduced to fighting like an animal, with tooth and claw. His fear was his most powerful tool, if he did not let it debilitate him. He remembered vaguely watching Sturm and his brother in hand-to-hand combat.

Clasping his hands together, Raistlin drove his right elbow with all the force his adrenaline- pumping body could manage into Liam's midriff.

The dark elf grunted and fell back. But he was not injured, just short of breath. He leapt back to the fight, his knife slashing.

Frantic and terrified, Raistlin grabbed hold of his attacker's knife hand. The two grappled, Liam trying to stab Raistlin, Raistlin struggling to wrench the knife from the dark elf's grip.

They lurched about the narrow corridor. Raistlin's strength was ebbing fast. He could not hope to keep up this deadly contest for long. Staking his hopes on one desperate move, Raistlin concentrated his remaining energy, smashed the elf's hand-the hand holding the knife-against the stone.

Bones cracked, the elf gasped in pain, but he clung tenaciously to his weapon.

Panic seized hold. Again and again Raistlin struck Liam's hand against the hard stone. The knife's handle was slippery with blood. Liam could not hold on to it. The knife slipped from his grip and fell to the floor.

Liam made a lunge to try to recover his weapon. He lost it in the shadows, apparently, for he was down on all fours, frantically searching the floor.

Raistlin saw the knife. The blade burned with red fire in Lunitari's bright light. The elf saw it at the same time, made a lunge for it. Snatching the knife from beneath the elf's grasping fingers, Raistlin drove the blade into Liam's stomach.

The dark elf screamed, doubled over.

Raistlin yanked the blade free. Liam tumbled to his knees, his hand pressed over his stomach. Blood poured from his mouth. He pitched forward, dead, at Raistlin's feet.

Gasping, each breath causing him wrenching agony, Raistlin started to turn, to flee. He could not make his legs work properly and collapsed to the stone floor. A burning sensation spread from the knife wound throughout his nerve endings. He was nauseated, sick.

Liam would have his revenge after all, Raistlin realized in bitter despair. The dark elf's knife blade had been tipped with poison.

The lights of Solinari and Lunitari wavered in his sight, blurred together, and then darkness overtook him.

Raistlin woke to find himself lying in the same corridor. Liam's body was still there, beside him, the elf's dead hand touching him. The body was still warm. Raistlin had not been unconscious long.

He dragged himself away from the dead body of the dark elf. Wounded and weak, he crawled into a shadowy corridor and slumped against a wall. Pain coiled around his bowels. Clutching his stomach, he retched and heaved. When the vomiting subsided, he lay back on the stone floor and waited to die.

"Why are you doing this to me?" he demanded through a haze of sickness.

He knew the answer. Because he had dared to bargain with a wizard so powerful that he had once thought of overthrowing Takhisis, a wizard so powerful that the conclave feared his power even after he was dead.

If your armor is made of dross, it will crack at the first blow, and when that happens, I will slip inside and take what is mine.

Raistlin almost laughed. "What little life I have left, you are welcome to, archmagus!"

He lay on the floor, his cheek pressed against the stone. Did he want to survive? The Test had taken a terrible toll, one from which he might never recover. His health had always been precarious. If he survived, his body would be like a shattered crystal, held together by the force of his own will. How would he live? Who would take care of him?

Caramon. Caramon would care for his weak twin.

Raistlin stared into Lunitari's red, flickering light. He couldn't imagine such a life, a life of dependency on his brother. Death was preferable.

A figure materialized out of the shadowy darkness of the corridor, a figure illuminated by Solinari's white light.

"This is it," Raistlin said to himself. "This is my final test. The one I won't survive."

He felt almost grateful to the wizards for ending his suffering. He lay helpless, watching the dark shadow as it drew closer and closer. It came to stand next to him. He could sense its living presence, hear its breathing. It bent over him. Involuntarily, he closed his eyes.

"Raist?"

Gentle fingers touched his feverish flesh.

"Raist!" The voice sobbed. "What have they done to you?"

"Caramon," Raistlin spoke, but he couldn't hear his own words. His throat was raw from the smoke, the retching.

"I'm taking you out of here," his brother said.

Strong arms slipped under Raistlin's body. He smelled Caramon's familiar smell of sweat and leather, heard the familiar sound of creaking armor, his broadsword clanking against the stone.

"No!" Raistlin tried to free himself. He pushed against his brother's massive chest with his frail, fragile hand. "Leave me, Caramon! My Test is not finished! Leave me!" His voice was an intelligible croak. He gagged, coughed.

Caramon lifted his brother, cradled him in his arms. "Nothing is worth this, Raist. Rest easy."

They walked beneath the silver hand, holding the white light. Raistlin saw tears, wet and glistening, on his brother's cheeks. He made one last attempt.

"They won't permit me to leave, Caramon!" He fought for breath enough to speak. "They'll try to stop us. You're only putting yourself in danger."

"Let them come," Caramon said grimly. He walked with firm, unhurried steps down the corridor.

Raistlin sank back, helpless, his head resting on Caramon's shoulder. For an instant, he allowed himself to feel comforted by his brother's strength. The next moment he cursed his weakness, cursed his twin.

"You fool!" Raistlin said silently, lacking the strength to speak the words aloud. "You great, stubborn fool! Now we'll both die. And, of course, you will die protecting me. Even in death, I will be indebted to you."

"Ah!"

Raistlin heard and felt the sharp intake of breath into his brother's body. Caramon's pace slowed. Raistlin raised his head.

At the end of the corridor floated the disembodied head of an old man. Raistlin heard whispered words.

If your armor is made of dross…

"Mmmmm." Caramon rumbled deeply in his chest-his battle cry.

"My magic can destroy it!" Raistlin protested as Caramon laid his brother gently on the stone floor. That was a lie. Raistlin did not have energy enough to pull a rabbit from a hat. But he'd be damned if Caramon was going to fight his battles, especially against the old man. Raistlin had made the bargain, he had been the one to benefit, he must pay.

"Get out of my way, Caramon!"

Caramon did not respond. He walked toward Fistandantilus, blocked Raistlin's view.

Raistlin put his hands to the wall. Propping his body against the stone, he pushed himself to a standing position. He was about to expend his strength in one last shout, hoping to warn off his brother. Raistlin's shout was never uttered. His warning died in a rattle of disbelief.

Caramon had dropped his weapons. Now, in place of his sword, he held a rod of amber. In the other hand, his shield hand, he clasped a bit of fur. He rubbed the two together, spoke the magic. Lightning streaked from the amber, sizzled down the corridor, struck the head of Fistandantilus.

The head laughed and hurtled straight at Caramon. He did not blench, but kept his hands raised. He spoke the magic again. Another bolt flashed.

The old man's head exploded in blue fire. A thin cry of thwarted anger screamed from some far distant plane, but it died away to nothing. The corridor was empty.

"Now we'll get out of here," Caramon said with satisfaction. He tucked the rod and the fur into a pouch he wore at his belt. "The door is just ahead."

"How-how did you do that?" Raistlin gasped, sagging against the wall.

Caramon stopped, alarmed by his brother's wild, frenzied stare.

"Do what, Raist?"

"The magic!" Raistlin cried in fury. "The magic!"

"Oh, that." Caramon shrugged, gave a shy, deprecating smile. "I've always been able to." He grew solemn, stern. "Most of the time I don't need the magic, what with my sword and all, but you're hurt really bad, and I didn't want to take the time fighting that lich. Don't worry about it, Raist. Magic can still be your little specialty. Like I said, most of the time I don't need it."

"This is not possible," Raistlin said to himself, struggling to think clearly. "Caramon could not have acquired in moments what it took me years of study to attain. This doesn't make sense! Something's not right. Think, damn it! Think!"

It wasn't the physical pain that clouded his mind. It was the old inner pain clawing at him, tearing at him with poisoned talons. Caramon, strong and cheerful, good and kind, open and honest. Caramon, everyone's friend.

Not like Raistlin-the runt, the Sly One.

"All I ever had was my magic," Raistlin said, speaking clearly, thinking clearly for the first time in his life. "And now you have that, too."

Using the wall for support, Raistlin raised both his hands, put his thumbs together. He began speaking the words, the words that would summon the magic.

"Raist!" Caramon started to back away. "Raist, what are you doing? C'mon! You need me! I'll take care of you-just like always. Raist! I'm your brother!"

"I have no brother!"

Beneath the layer of cold, hard rock, jealousy bubbled and seethed. Tremors split the rock. Jealousy, red and molten, coursed through Raistlin's body and flamed out of his hands. The fire flared, billowed, and engulfed Caramon.

Caramon screamed, tried to beat out the flames, but there was no escaping the magic. His body withered, dwindled in the fire, became the body of a wizened old man. An old man wearing black robes, whose hair and beard were trailing wisps of fire.

Fistandantilus, his hand outstretched, walked toward Raistlin.

"If your armor is dross," said the old man softly. "I will find the crack."

Raistlin could not move, could not defend himself. The magic had sapped the last of his strength.

Fistandantilus stood before Raistlin. The old man's black robes were tattered shreds of night, his flesh was rotting and decayed, the bones were visible through the skin. His nails were long and pointed, as long as those of a corpse, his eyes gleamed with the radiant heat that had been in Raistlin's soul, the warmth that had brought the dead to life. A bloodstone hung from a pendant around the fleshless neck.

The old man's hand touched Raistlin's breast, caressed his flesh, teasing and tormenting. Fistandantilus plunged his hand into Raistlin's chest and seized hold of his heart.

The dying soldier clasps his hands around the haft of the spear that has torn through his body.

Raistlin seized hold of the old man's wrist, clamped his fingers around it in a grip that death would not have relaxed.

Caught, trapped, Fistandantilus fought to break Raistlin's grip, but he could not free himself and retain his hold on the young man's heart.

The white light of Solinari, the red light of Lunitari, and the black, empty light of Nuitari-light that Raistlin could now see-merged in his fainting vision, stared down at him, an unwinking eye.

"You may take my life," Raistlin said, keeping fast hold of the old man's wrist, as Fistandantilus kept hold of young man's heart. "But you will serve me in return."

The eye winked, and blinked out.

Chapter 7

He killed his own brother?" Antimodes repeated the information Par-Salian had just given him, repeated it in disbelief.

Antimodes had not been involved in Raistlin's Test. Neither teacher nor mentor of an initiate is allowed to participate. Anti-modes had handled the testing of several of the other young magi. Most had gone quite well, all had passed, though none had been as dramatic as Raistlin's. Antimodes had been sorry he missed it. He had been until he heard this. Now he was shocked and deeply disturbed.

"And the young man was given the Red Robes? My friend, are you in your right mind? I cannot conceive of an act more evil!"

"He killed an illusion of his brother," Par-Salian emphasized. "You have siblings of your own, I believe?" he asked, with a meaningful smile.

"I know what you're saying, and, yes, there have been times I would have been glad to see my brother engulfed in flames, but the thought is a long way from the deed. Did Raistlin know it was an illusion?"

"When I asked him that question," Par-Salian replied, "he looked straight at me and said in a tone that I shall never forget, 'Does it matter?'"

"Poor young man," Antimodes said, sighing. "Poor young men, I should say, since the other twin was a witness to his own fratricide. Was that truly necessary?"

"I deemed it so. Odd as it may seem, though he is the stronger of the two physically, Caramon is far more dependent on his brother than Raistlin is on him. By this demonstration, I had hoped to sever that unhealthy connection, to convince Caramon that he needs to build a life of his own. But I fear that my plan did not succeed. Caramon has fully exonerated his brother. Raistlin was ill, not in his right mind, not to be held responsible for his own actions. And now, to complicate matters, Raistlin is more dependent upon his brother than ever."

"How is the young man's health?"

"Not good. He will live, but only because his spirit is strong, stronger than his body."

"So there was a meeting between Raistlin and Fistandantilus. And Raistlin agreed to the bargain. He has given his life's energy to feed that foul lich!"

"There was a meeting and a bargain," Par-Salian reiterated cautiously. "But I believe that this time Fistandantilus may have got more than he bargained for." "Raistlin remembers nothing?"

"Nothing whatsoever. Fistandantilus has seen to that. I do not believe that he wants the young man to remember. Raistlin may have agreed to the bargain, but he did not die, as did the others. Something kept him alive and defiant. If Raistlin ever does remember, I think it is Fistandantilus who might be in considerable danger."

"What does the young man believe happened to him?"

"The Test itself shattered his health, left him with a weakness in his heart and lungs that will plague him the remainder of his life. He attributes that to the battle with the dark elf. I did not disabuse him of the notion. Were I to tell him the truth, he would not believe me."

"Do you suppose he will ever come to know the truth?"

"Only if and when he comes to know the truth about himself," Par-Salian answered. "He has to confront and admit the darkness within. I have given him the eyes to see with, if he will: the hourglass eyes of the sorceress Raelana. Thus he will view time's passing in all he looks upon. Youth withers before those eyes, beauty fades, mountains crumble to dust."

"And what do you hope to accomplish by this torture?" Antimodes demanded angrily. He truly thought the head of the conclave had gone too far.

"To pierce his arrogance. To teach him patience. And as I said, to give him the ability to see inside himself, should he turn his gaze inward. There will be little joy in his life," Par-Salian admitted, adding, "but then I foresee little joy for anyone in Ansalon. I did compensate for what you deem my cruelty, however."

"I never said-"

"You didn't need to, my friend. I know how you feel. I have given Raistlin the Staff of Magius, one of our most powerful artifacts. Though it will be a long time before he knows its true power."

Antimodes was bitter, refusing to be mollified. "And now you have your sword."

"The metal withstood the fire," Par-Salian replied gravely, "and came out tempered and true, with a fine cutting edge. Now the young man must practice, he must hone the skills he will need in the future and learn new ones."

"None of the conclave will apprentice him, not if they think he is somehow tied to Fistandantilus. Not even the Black Robes. They would not trust him. How, then, will he learn?"

"I believe he will find a master. A lady has taken an interest in him, a very great interest."

"Not Ladonna?" Antimodes frowned.

"No, no. Another lady, far greater and more powerful." Par-Salian cast a glance out the window, where the red moon shone with a ruby's glittering brilliance.

"Ah, indeed?" Antimodes said, impressed. "Well, if that's the case, I suppose I need not worry about him. Still, he's very young and very frail, and we don't have much time."

"As you said, it will be some years before the Dark Queen can muster her forces, before she is prepared to launch her attack."

"Yet already the clouds of war gather," Antimodes remarked ominously. "We stand alone in the last rays of the setting sun. And I ask again, where are the true gods now that we need them?"

"Where they have always been," Par-Salian replied complacently.

Chapter 8

Raistlin sat in a chair before a desk in the Tower of High Sorcery. He had been a resident of the tower for several days, Par-Salian having given the young man permission to remain in the tower for as long as he deemed necessary to recover from the effects of the Test.

Not that Raistlin would ever truly recover. He had never before been physically strong or healthy, but in comparison to what he was today, he looked back upon his former self with envy. He spent a moment recalling the days of his youth, realized regretfully that he had never fully appreciated them, never fully appreciated his energy and vigor. But would he go back? Would he trade his shattered body for a whole one?

Raistlin's hand touched the wood of the Staff of Magius, which stood at his side, was never far from his side. The wood was smooth and warm, the enchantment within the staff tingled through his fingers, an exhilarating sensation. He had only the vaguest idea what magic the staff could perform. It was requisite that any mage coming into possession of a magical artifact search out such power himself. But he was aware of the staff's immense magical power, and he reveled in it.

Not much information on the staff existed in the tower; many of the old manuscripts concerning Magius, which had been kept in the Tower of Palanthas, had been lost when the magi evacuated to the tower at Wayreth. The staff itself had been retained, as being of far more value, though it had- according to Par-Salian-remained unused all these centuries.

The time had not been right for the staff's return to the world, Par-Salian had said evasively in answer to Raistlin's question. Until now the staff had not been needed. Raistlin wondered what made the time right now, right for a staff that had purportedly been used to help fight dragons. He was not likely to find out. Par-Salian kept his own counsel. He would tell Raistlin nothing about the staff, beyond where to find the books that might provide him with knowledge.

One of those books was before him now, a smallish quarto written by some scribe attached to Huma's retinue. The book was more frustrating than helpful. Raistlin learned a great deal about manning battlements and posting guards, information that would be useful to a war mage, but very little about the staff. What he had learned had been inadvertent. The scribe, writing an account of Magius, described the mage leaping from the topmost tower of the besieged castle to land unharmed among us, much to our great astonishment and wonder. He claimed to have used the magic of his staff.

Raistlin wrote in his own small volume: It appears that the staff has the ability to allow its owner to float through the air as lightly as a feather. Is this spell inherent in the staff? Must magical words be recited in order to activate this spell? Is there a limit to its usage? Will the spell work for anyone other than the magus who is in possession of the staff

All these were questions that must be answered, and that was just for one of the staff's enchantments. Raistlin guessed there must be many more bound within the wood. In one sense, it was frustrating not to know. He would have liked to have had them delineated. Yet if the nature of the staff's powers had been presented to him, he still would have pursued his studies. The old manuscripts might be lying. They might be deliberately withholding information. He trusted no one but himself.

His studies might take him years, but.

A spasm of coughing interrupted his work. The cough was painful, debilitating, frightening. His windpipe closed, he could not breathe, and when the paroxysms were very bad, he had the terrible feeling that he would never be able to breathe again, that he would suffocate and die.

This was one of the bad ones. He fought, struggled to breathe. He grew faint and dizzy from lack of air, and when at last he was able to draw a breath with a certain amount of ease, he was so exhausted from the effort that he was forced to rest his head on his arms on the table. He lay there, almost sobbing. His injured ribs hurt him cruelly, his diaphragm burned from coughing.

A gentle hand touched his shoulder.

"Raist? Are. are you all right?"

Raistlin sat upright, thrust aside his brother's hand.

"What a stupid question! Even for you. Of course I am not all right, Caramon!" Raistlin dabbed at his lips with a handkerchief, drew it back stained with blood. He swiftly concealed the handkerchief in a secret pocket of his new red robes.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Caramon asked, patiently ignoring his brother's ill humor.

"You can leave me alone and quit interrupting my work!" Raistlin returned. "Are you packed? We leave within the hour, you know."

"If you're sure you're well enough." Caramon began. Catching his brother's irritated and baleful gaze, he bit his tongue. "I'll. go pack," he said, though he was already packed and had been for the past three hours.

Caramon started to leave, tiptoeing out of the room. He fondly imagined that he was being extremely quiet. In reality, with his rattling, jingling, clanking, and creaking, he made more noise than a legion of mountain dwarves on parade.

Reaching into the pocket, Raistlin drew forth the handkerchief, wet with his own blood. He gazed at it for a dark, brooding moment.

"Caramon," he called.

"Yes, Raist?" Caramon turned around, pathetically anxious. "Is there something I can do for you?"

They would have many years together, years of working together, living together, eating together, fighting together. Caramon had seen his twin kill him. Raistlin had seen himself kill.

Hammer blows. One after the other.

Raistlin sighed deeply. "Yes, my brother. There is something you can do for me. Par-Salian gave me a recipe for a tisane that he believes will help ease my cough. You will find the recipe and the ingredients in my pouch, there on the chair. If you could mix it for me."

"I will, Raist!" Caramon said excitedly. He couldn't have looked more pleased if his twin had bestowed a wealth of jewels and steel coins upon him. "I haven't noticed a teakettle, but I'm sure there must be one around here somewhere. Oh, here it is. I guess I didn't see it before. You keep working. I'll just measure out these leaves. Whew! This smells awful! Are you sure?. Never mind," Caramon amended hurriedly. "I'll make the tea. Maybe it'll taste better than it smells."

He put on the kettle, then bent over the teapot, mixing and measuring the leaves with as much care as a gnome would take on a Life Quest.

Raistlin returned to his reading.

Magius struck the ogre on the head with his staff. I charged in to save him, for ogre's are notoriously thick-skulled, and I could not see that the wizard's walking staff would inflict much damage. To my surprise, however, the ogre keeled over dead, as if it had been struck by a thunderbolt.

Raistlin carefully noted the occurrence, writing: The staff apparently increases the force of a blow.

"Raist," said Caramon, turning from watching for the teapot to boil, "I just want you to know. About what happened. I understand."

Raistlin lifted his head, paused in his writing. He did not look at his brother, but gazed out the window. The Forest of Wayreth surrounded the tower. He looked out upon withering leaves, leafless branches, rotted and decayed stumps.

"You are never to mention that incident to me or to anyone else, my brother, so long as you live. Do you understand?"

"Sure, Raist," Caramon said softly, "I understand." He turned back to his task. "Your tea's almost ready."

Raistlin closed the book he had been reading. His eyes burned from the strain of trying to decipher the scribe's old-fashioned handwriting, he was weary from the effort involved in translating the mixture of archaic Common and the military slang spoken among soldiers and mercenaries.

Flexing his hand, which ached from gripping the pen, Raistlin slid the volume about Magius into his belt for perusal during their long journey north. They were not returning to Solace. Antimodes had given the twins the name of a nobleman who was hiring warriors and who would, Antimodes said, be glad to hire a war mage as well. Antimodes was heading in that direction. He would be glad to have the young men ride with him.

Raistlin had readily agreed. He planned to learn all he could from the archmagus before they parted. He had hoped that Antimodes would apprentice him, and had even been bold enough to make the request. Antimodes had refused, however. He never took apprentices, or so he said. He lacked the patience. He added that there was little opportunity in the way of apprenticeships open these days. Raistlin would be far better studying on his own.

This was a prevarication (one could not say that a White Robe lied). The other mages who had taken the Tests had all been apprenticed. Raistlin wondered why he was the exception. He decided, after considerable thought, that it must have something to do with Caramon.

His brother was rattling the teapot, making a most ungodly racket, slopping boiling water all over the floor and spilling the herbs.

Would I go back to the days of my youth?

Then my body had seemed frail, but it was strong in comparison to this fragile assembly of bones and flesh that I now inhabit, held together only by my will. Would I go back?

Then I looked on beauty and I saw beauty. Now I look on beauty and I see it drowned, bloated, and disfigured, carried downstream by the river of time. Would I go back?

Then we were twins. Together in the womb, together after birth, still together but now separate. The silken cords of brotherhood, cut, dangle between us, never to be restrung. Would I go back?

Closing the volume of his precious notations, Raistlin picked up a pen and wrote on the cover:

I, Magus.

And, with a swift, firm stroke, he underlined it.