The Soulforge

by Margaret Weis

  I’m going to be leaving sometime soon, the sister had said. My little brothers will have to fend for themselves when I’m gone.

  Antimodes clasped hands with the god, gave Solinari’s hand a deal-clinching shake. “There is a school quite close by. It is located about five miles to the west in a secluded wood. Most people have no idea it is even there. Five miles is not a long walk for a grown man, but it is quite a hike for a small boy, back and forth every day. Many students board there, especially those who come from distant parts of Ansalon. It would be my suggestion that you do the same. The school is only in session eight months out of the year. The master takes the summer months off to spend at the Tower of Wayreth. You could be with your family during that time. I would have to talk to your father, though. He is the one who must enroll you. Do you think he will approve?”

  “Father won’t care,” Raistlin said. “He’ll be relieved, I think. He’s afraid that I’ll end up like Mother.” The child’s pale cheeks were suddenly stained red. “Unless it costs a lot of money. Then I couldn’t do it.”

  “As to the money”—Antimodes had already made up his mind on that point—“we wizards take care of our own.”

  The child didn’t quite understand this. “It couldn’t be charity,” Raistlin said. “Father wouldn’t like that at all.”

  “It’s not charity,” Antimodes said briskly. “We have funds set aside for deserving students. We help pay their tuition and other expenses. Can I meet with your father tonight? I could explain this to him then.”

  “Yes, he should be home tonight. The job’s almost finished. I’ll bring him here. It’s hard for people to find our house sometimes after dark,” Raistlin said apologetically.

  Of course it is, Antimodes said silently, his heart wrenched with pity. A sad, unhappy, slovenly kept house, a lonely house. It hides among the shadows and guards its dark secret.

  The child was so thin, so weak. A good strong gust of wind would flatten his frail frame. Magic might well be the shield that would protect this fragile person, become the staff upon which he could lean when he was weak or weary. Or the magic might become a monster, sucking the life from the thin body, leaving a dry, desiccated husk. Antimodes might well be starting this boy on the path that would lead to an early death.

  “Why do you stare at me?” the child asked curiously.

  Antimodes gestured for Raistlin to leave his chair and come stand directly in front of him. Reaching out, Antimodes took hold of the boy’s hands. The youngster flinched and started to squirm away.

  He doesn’t like to be touched, Antimodes realized, but he maintained his hold on the boy. He wanted to emphasize his words with his flesh, his muscle, his bone. He wanted the boy to feel the words as well as hear them.

  “Listen to me, Raistlin,” Antimodes said, and the boy quieted and held still. He realized that this conversation was not that of an adult talking down to a child. It was one equal speaking to another. “The magic will not solve your problems. It will only add to them. The magic will not make people like you. It will increase their distrust. The magic will not ease your pain. It will twist and burn inside you until sometimes you think that even death would be preferable.”

  Antimodes paused, holding fast to the child’s hands that were hot and dry, as if he were running a fever. The archmage was ranging about mentally for a means of explanation this young boy might understand. The distant ringing tap of the blacksmith’s shop, rising up from the street below, provided the metaphor.

  “A mage’s soul is forged in the crucible of the magic,” Antimodes said. “You choose to go voluntarily into the fire. The blaze might well destroy you. But if you survive, every blow of the hammer will serve to shape your being. Every drop of water wrung from you will temper and strengthen your soul. Do you understand?”

  “I understand,” said the boy.

  “Do you have any question for me, Raistlin?” Antimodes asked, tightening his grip. “Any question at all?”

  The boy hesitated, considering. He was not reluctant to speak. He was wondering how to phrase his need.

  “My father says that before mages can work their magic, they are taken to a dark and horrible place where they must fight terrible monsters. My father says that sometimes the mages die in that place. Is that true?”

  “The Tower is really quite a lovely place, once you become accustomed to it,” said Antimodes. He paused, choosing his words carefully. He would not lie to the child, but some things were beyond the understanding of even this precocious six-year-old. “When a mage is older, much older than you are now, Raistlin, he or she goes to the Tower of High Sorcery and there takes a test. And, yes, sometimes the mage dies. The power a mage wields is very great. Any who are not able to control it or to commit their very lives to it would not be wanted in our order.”

  The boy looked very solemn, his eyes wide and pale. Antimodes gave the hands a squeeze, the boy a reassuring smile. “But that will be a long, long time from now, Raistlin. A long, long time. I don’t want to frighten you. I just want you to know what you face.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Raistlin quietly. “I understand.”

  Antimodes released the boy’s hands. Raistlin took an involuntary step backward and, probably unconsciously, put his hands behind his back.

  “And now, Raistlin,” said Antimodes, “I have a question for you. Why do you want to become a mage?”

  Raistlin’s blue eyes flared. “I like the feeling of the magic inside me. And”—he glanced at Otik, bustling about the counter; Raistlin’s thin lips parted in a pallid smile—“and someday fat innkeepers will bow to me.”

  Antimodes, taken aback, looked at the child to see if he were joking.

  Raistlin was not.

  The hand of the god on Antimodes’s shoulder suddenly trembled.

  4

  A MONTH LATER TO THE NIGHT, ANTIMODES WAS COMFORTABLY ensconced in the elegant chambers of Par-Salian of the White Robes, head of the Conclave of Wizards.

  The two men were very different and probably would not have been friends under ordinary circumstances. Both were about the same age, in their fifties. Antimodes was a man of the world, however. Par-Salian was a man of books. Antimodes liked to travel, he had a head for business, he was fond of good ale, pretty women, comfortable inns. He was nosy and inquisitive, fussy in his dress and his habits.

  Par-Salian was a scholar, whose knowledge of the art of magic was undeniably the most extensive of any wizard then living upon Krynn. He abhorred travel, had little use for other people, and was known to have loved only one woman, a misguided affair that he regretted to this day. He took little care of his personal appearance or physical comfort. If absorbed in his studies, he often forgot to come to meals.

  It was the responsibility of some of the apprentice magic-users to see to it that their master took sustenance, which they did by surreptitiously sliding a loaf of bread beneath his arm as he read. He would then absentmindedly munch on it. The apprentices often joked among themselves that they could have substituted a loaf of sawdust for the bread and Par-Salian would have never known the difference. They held him in such awe and reverence, however, that none dared try the experiment.

  This night, Par-Salian was entertaining his old friend, and therefore he had left poring over his books, though not without a pang of regret. Antimodes had brought as a gift several scrolls of dark magic, which the archmage had acquired by chance on his travels. One of their black-robed sisters, an evil wizardess, had been slain by a mob. Antimodes had arrived too late to save the wizardess, which he would have at least made a halfhearted attempt to do, all mages being bound together by their magic, no matter to which god or goddess they pledged their allegiance.

  He was, however, able to persuade the townspeople, a set of superstitious louts, to allow him to remove the wizardess’s personal effects before the mob set fire to her house. Antimodes had brought the scrolls to his friend, Par-Salian. Antimodes had kept for himself an amulet of summoning undead spi
rits. He could not and would not have used the amulet—the undead were a smelly, disgusting lot, as far as he was concerned. But he intended to offer it in trade to some of his black-robed brethren in the tower.

  Despite the fact that Par-Salian was of the White Robes, completely dedicated to the god Solinari, he was able to read and understand the scrolls of the evil wizardess, though at some pain to himself. He was one of the very few wizards ever who had the power to cross allegiances. He would never make use of them, but he could take note of the words used to perform the spell, the effects of the spell, the components needed to cast it, the spell’s duration, and any other interesting information he came across. His research would be recorded in the annals of the Tower of Wayreth. The scrolls themselves would then be deposited in the tower’s library, with an assigned valuation.

  “A terrible way to die,” said Par-Salian, pouring his guest a glass of elven wine, nicely chilled and sweet, with just a hint of woodbine, which reminded the drinker of green forests and sunlit glens. “Did you know her?”

  “Esmilla? No.” Antimodes shook his head. “And you could say that she asked for it. The mundane will overlook the snatching of a child or two, but start passing bad coins and they—”

  “Oh, come now, my dear Antimodes!” Par-Salian looked shocked. He was not noted for his sense of humor. “You’re joking, I think.”

  “Well, perhaps I am.” Antimodes grinned and sipped his wine.

  “Yet I see what you mean.” Par-Salian struck the arm of his high-backed wooden chair in impatience. “Why do these fool mages insist on wasting their skills and talents in order to produce a few poor quality coins, which every shopkeeper between here and the minotaur islands can tell are magicked? It just doesn’t make any sense to me.”

  Antimodes agreed. “Considering the effort one expends on producing only two or three steel coins, a mage could do manual labor for less effort and make far more. If our late sister had continued to sell her services to rid the town of rats, as she had been doing for years, she would no doubt have been left in peace. As it was, the magically created coins threw everyone into a panic. First, most people believed that they were cursed and were terrified to touch them. Those who didn’t think the money was cursed feared that she was about to start minting coins at a rate to rival the Lord of Palanthas and would soon own the town and everything in it.”

  “It is precisely for this reason that we have established rules about the reproduction of coins of the realm,” said Par-Salian. “Every young mage tries it once. I did and I’m sure you probably did yourself.”

  Antimodes nodded and shrugged.

  “But most of us learn that it simply isn’t worth the time and effort, not to mention the serious impact we could have on Ansalon’s various economies. This woman was certainly old enough to know better. What was she thinking?”

  “Who knows? Gone a bit daft, maybe. Or just greedy. She angered her god, however. Nuitari abandoned her to her fate. Whatever defensive spells she tried to cast fizzled.”

  “He is not one to permit the frivolous use of his gifts,” said Par-Salian in stern and solemn tones.

  Antimodes shifted his chair a bit nearer the fire that crackled on the hearth. He always felt extremely close to the gods of magic when visiting the Tower of High Sorcery—close to all the gods of magic, the light, the gray, and the dark. This closeness was uncomfortable, as if someone was always breathing down the back of his neck, and was the main reason Antimodes did not live in the tower but chose to reside in the outside world, no matter how dangerous it might be for magic-users. He was glad to change the subject.

  “Speaking of children …” Antimodes began.

  “Were we?” Par-Salian asked, smiling.

  “Of course. I said something about snatching children.”

  “Ah, yes. I remember. Very well, then, we were speaking of children. What have you to say about them? I thought you didn’t like them.”

  “I don’t, as a rule, but I met a rather interesting youngster on my trip here. He’s one to take note of, I think. In fact, I believe three already have.” Antimodes glanced outside the window toward the night sky, where shone two of the three moons sacred to the gods of magic. He nodded his head knowingly.

  Par-Salian appeared interested. “The child has innate gifts? Did you test him? How old is he?”

  “About six. And, no. I was staying at the inn in Solace. It wasn’t the time or the place, and I’ve never put much stock in those silly tests anyway. Any clever child could pass them. No, it was what the boy had to say and how he said it that impressed me. Scared me, too, I don’t mind telling you. There’s more than a bit of cold-blooded ambition in that boy. Frightening in one so young. Of course, that could come from his background. The family is not well off.”

  “What did you do with him?”

  “Enrolled him with Master Theobald. Yes, I know. Theobald is not the Conclave’s greatest teacher. He’s plodding and unimaginative, prejudiced and old-fashioned, but the boy will get a good, solid grounding in the basics and strict discipline, which won’t hurt him. He’s been running wild, I gather. Raised by an older half-sister, who is something special in her own right.”

  “Theobald is expensive,” said Par-Salian. “You implied the boy’s family was poor.”

  “I paid for his first semester.” Antimodes waved away any acknowledgment that he’d done something laudable. “The family must never know, mind you. I made up some tale about the tower having established funds for deserving students.”

  “Not a bad idea,” said Par-Salian thoughtfully. “And one we might well put into practice, especially now that we’re seeing some of the unreasoning prejudice against our kind starting to die off. Unfortunately, fools like Esmilla keep putting us in a bad light. Still, I believe that people are in general more tolerant. They’re starting to appreciate what we do for them. You travel abroad openly and safely, my friend. You could not have done so forty years ago.”

  “True,” Antimodes admitted, “although I believe that in general the world is altogether a darker place these days. I ran into a new religious order in Haven. They worship a god known as Belzor, and it sounds very much to me as if they’re planning on cooking and serving up that same old tripe we heard from the Kingpriest of Istar before the gods—bless their hearts—dropped a mountain on him.”

  “Indeed? You must tell me about it.” Par-Salian settled back more comfortably in his chair. Taking a leather-bound book from the table at his side, he opened it to a blank page, dated it, and prepared to write. They were about to get down to the important business of the evening.

  The main part of Antimodes’s job was to report on the political situation of the continent of Ansalon, which, as was nearly always the case, was done up in a confused and tangled knot. This included the new religious order, which was discussed and summarily dismissed.

  “A charismatic leader out of Haven,” Antimodes reported. “He has only a few followers and promises the usual assortment of miracles, including healing. I didn’t get a chance to see him, but from what I heard he is probably a rather highly skilled illusionist with some practical knowledge of herb lore. He’s not doing anything in the way of healing that the Druids haven’t been practicing for years, but it’s all new to the people of Abanasinia. Someday we may have to expose him, but he’s not doing any harm at the moment and is, in fact, doing some good. I’d recommend that we not start trouble. It would look very bad for us. Public sympathy would be all on his side.”

  “I quite agree.” Par-Salian nodded and made a brief note in his book. “What about the elves? Did you go through Qualinesti?”

  “Only the outskirts. They were polite, but they wouldn’t permit me to go farther. Nothing’s changed with them in the last five hundred years, and provided the rest of the world leaves them alone, nothing will change. As for the Silvanesti, they are, as far as we know, hiding out in their magical woods under the leadership of Lorac. I’m not telling you anything you don’t alre
ady know, however,” Antimodes added, pouring himself another glass of elven wine. The topic had reminded him of the excellence of its taste. “You must have had a chance to talk to some of their mages.”

  Par-Salian shook his head. “They came to the Tower this winter, but only on business, and then they were close-lipped and spoke to us humans only when absolutely necessary. They would not share their magic with us, though they were quite happy to use ours.”

  “Do they have anything we would want?” Antimodes asked with a faintly amused smile.

  “So far as scrollwork, no,” Par-Salian replied. “It is shocking how stagnant the Silvanesti have become. Not surprising, considering their terrible distrust and fear of change of any sort. The only creative mind they have among them belongs to a young mage known as Dalamar, and I’m certain that as soon as they discover what he’s been dabbling in, they’ll throw him out on his pointed ear. As to their top White Robes, they were quite eager to obtain some of the new work being done on evocation spells, particularly those of a defensive nature.”

  “They wanted to pay in gold, which is worthless these days. I had to be quite firm and insist on either hard steel, which, of course, they don’t have, or barter. Then they wanted to palm off on me some moldy magical spells that were considered old-fashioned in my father’s day. In the end, I agreed to trade for spell components; they grow some quite lovely and unusual plants in Silvanesti, and their jewelry is exquisite. They traded and left, and I haven’t seen them since. I wonder if they’re not facing some threat in Silvanesti or if they’ve divined that some threat is approaching. Their king, Lorac, is a powerful mage and something of a seer.”

  “If they are, we’ll never know about it,” Antimodes said. “They would rather see their people wiped out before they would lower themselves to ask any of us for help.”

  He sniffed. He hadn’t any use at all for the Silvanesti, whose white-robed wizards were part of the Conclave of Wizards, but who made it clear that they considered this a tremendous condescension on their part. They did not like humans and indicated their dislike in various ways, such as pretending they could not speak Common, the language of all races on Krynn, or turning away in contempt when any human dared to desecrate the elven language by speaking it. Incredibly long-lived, the elves saw change as something to be feared. The humans, with their shorter life spans, more frenetic lives, and constant need to “improve,” represented everything the elves abhorred. The Silvanesti elves hadn’t had a creative idea in their heads in the last two thousand years.