“The Qualinesti elves, on the other hand, keep a close watch on their borders, but they do permit people of other races to enter, provided they have permission from the Speaker of the Sun and Stars,” Antimodes went on. “Dwarven and human metalsmiths are highly regarded and encouraged to visit—though not to stay—and their own elven artisans do occasionally travel to other lands. Unfortunately, they frequently meet with much prejudice and hatred.”
Antimodes knew and liked many of the Qualinesti and was sorry to see them misused. “Several of their young people, particularly the eldest son of the speaker—what’s his name?”
“The speaker? Solostaran.”
“No, the eldest son.”
“Ah, you must mean Porthios.”
“Yes, Porthios. He’s said to be thinking that the Silvanesti have the right idea and that no human should enter Qualinesti land.”
“You can’t really blame him, considering the terrible things that happened when the humans entered Qualinesti land after the Cataclysm. But I don’t think we need worry. They’ll bicker over this for the next century unless something pushes them one way or the other.”
“Indeed.” Antimodes had noted a subtle change in Par-Salian’s voice. “You think something is likely to push them?”
“I’ve heard rumblings,” said Par-Salian. “Distant thunder.”
“I haven’t heard thunder,” Antimodes said. “The few Black Robes I meet these days are a little too smooth. They act as if bat guano wouldn’t ignite in their hands.”
“A few of the more powerful have quietly dropped out of sight,” said Par-Salian.
“Who’s that?”
“Well, Dracart, for one. He used to stop by on a regular basis to see what new artifacts had come in and to check on possible apprentices. But the only wizards of the Black who have come by lately have been those of low ranking, who wouldn’t be invited to share the secrets of their elders. And even they seem a bit edgy.”
“I take it, then, you have not seen the fair Ladonna,” Antimodes said with a sly wink.
Par-Salian smiled faintly and shrugged. That fire had died years ago, and he was too old and too absorbed in his work to be either pleased or annoyed by his friend’s teasing.
“No, I have not spoken to Ladonna this past year, and what is more, I believe that whatever she is doing she is deliberately hiding from me. She refused to attend a meeting of the heads of the orders, something which she’s never done before. She sent a representative in her name—a man who said exactly three words the entire time and those were ‘pass the salt.’ ” Par-Salian shook his head. “Queen Takhisis has been quiet too long. Something’s up.”
“All we can do is watch and wait, my friend, and be prepared to act when necessary.” Antimodes paused, sipped his elven wine. “One bit of good news I have is that the Solamnic knights are finally beginning to pull themselves together. Many have reclaimed their family estates and are rebuilding their holdings. Their new leader, Lord Gunthar, is a keen politician who has the ability to think with his head, not his helmet. He’s endeared himself to the local populace by cleaning out a few goblin strongholds, mopping up some bandits, and sponsoring jousts and tourneys in various parts of Solamnia. Nothing the rabble likes more than to see grown men hammer on each other.”
Par-Salian looked grave, even alarmed. “I don’t consider this good news, Antimodes. The knights have no love for us. If they stop at hunting goblins, that is one thing, but you can be certain that it will be only a matter of time before they add sorcerers to their list of enemies, as they did in the old days. Such is even written into the Measure.”
“You should meet with Lord Gunthar,” Antimodes suggested, and he was amused to see Par-Salian’s white eyebrows nearly shoot off his head. “No, I’m quite in earnest. I’m not suggesting you should invite him here, but—”
“I should think not,” Par-Salian said stiffly.
“But you should make a trip to Solamnia. Visit him. Assure him that we have only the good of Solamnia in mind.”
“How can I assure him of that when he could point out, with considerable justification, that many in our order do not have the good of Solamnia in mind? The knights distrust magic, they distrust us, all of us, and I must tell you that I’m not particularly inclined to trust them. It seems to me wise and prudent to keep out of their way, to do nothing to draw attention to ourselves.”
“Magius was the friend of Huma,” prodded Antimodes.
“And if I recall the legend correctly, Huma was not greatly respected by his fellow knights for that very reason,” Par-Salian returned dryly. “What news of Thorbardin?” He changed subject abruptly, indicating that the matter was closed.
Antimodes was diplomatic enough not to continue to press the issue, but he decided privately that he would visit Solamnia, perhaps on the way back, though that would mean going a considerable distance out of his way to the north. He was as curious as a kender about the Solamnic knights, who had long been held in disrespect and even antipathy by people who had once looked upon the knighthood as law-givers and protectors. Now it appeared as if the knighthood was regaining something of its old standing.
Antimodes was eager to see this for himself, eager to see if somehow he might be able to profit from it. He would not mention this junket to Par-Salian, of course. The Black Robes were not the only members of the conclave to keep their doings secret.
“The dwarves of Thorbardin are still in Thorbardin, we presume, mainly because no one has seen them leave. They are completely self-sufficient, with no reason to take any interest in the rest of the world, and I really don’t see why they should. The hill dwarves are expanding their territory, and many are starting to travel to other lands. Some are even taking up residence outside their mountain homelands.” Antimodes thought of the dwarf he’d met in Solace.
“As to the gnomes, they are like the dwarves of Thorbardin, with one exception—we assume the gnomes still reside in Mount Nevermind because no one has seen it explode yet. The kender appear to be more prolific than ever; they go everywhere, see everything, steal most of it, misplace the rest, and are of no use whatsoever.”
“Oh, I think they are of use,” said Par-Salian earnestly. He was known to be fond of kender, mainly so (Antimodes always said sourly) because he remained isolated in his tower and never had dealings with them. “Kender are the true innocents of this world. They remind us that we spend a great deal of time and energy worrying about things that are really not very important.”
Antimodes grunted. “And so when may we expect to see you abandon your books, grab a hoopak, and take off down the road?”
Par-Salian smiled back. “Don’t think I haven’t considered it, my friend. I believe I would be a deft hand at hoopak flinging, if it came to that. I was quite skilled with a slingshot when I was a child. Ah, well, the evening grows long.” This was his signal to end the meeting. “Will I see you in the morning?” he asked with a faint anxiety, which Antimodes understood.
“I would not dream of interfering in your work, my friend,” he answered. “I will have a look through the artifacts and scrolls and the spell components, especially if you have some elven merchandise. There’s one or two things I want to pick up. Then I’ll be on my way.”
“You are the one who would make a good kender,” said Par-Salian, rising in his turn. “You never stay in one place long enough for the dust to settle on your shoes. Where do you go from here?”
“Oh, round and about,” Antimodes said lightly. “I’m in no hurry to return home. My brother is capable of running the business quite well without me, and I’ve made arrangements for my earnings to be invested, so that I make money even when I’m not there. Much easier and far more profitable than chanting spells over a lump of iron are. Good night, my friend.”
“Good night and safe journeying,” Par-Salian said, taking his friend by the hand and giving it a hearty shake. He paused a moment, tightened his grasp.
“Be careful, Antimodes. I
don’t like the signs. I don’t like the portents. The sun shines on us now, but I see the tips of dark wings casting long shadows. Continue sending me your reports. I value them highly.”
“I will be careful,” said Antimodes, a little troubled by his friend’s earnest appeal.
Antimodes was well aware that Par-Salian had not told all he knew. The head of the conclave was not only adept at seeing into the future, he was also known to be a favorite of Solinari, the god of white magic. Dark wings. What could he possibly mean by that? The Queen of Darkness, dear old Takhisis? Gone but not forgotten. Not dare forgotten by those who studied the past, by those who knew of what evil she was capable.
Dark wings. Vultures? Eagles? Symbols of war? Griffins, pegasi? Magical beasts, not seen much these days. Dragons?
Paladine help us!
All the more reason, Antimodes determined, why I should find out what’s happening in Solamnia. He was heading out the door when Par-Salian again stopped him. “That young pupil … the one of whom you spoke. What was his name?” It took Antimodes a moment to shift his thoughts to this different tack, another moment to try to remember.
“Raistlin. Raistlin Majere.”
Par-Salian made a note of it in his book.
5
IT WAS EARLY MORNING IN SOLACE, VERY EARLY. THE SUN HAD NOT yet dawned when the twins awoke in their small home that lurked in the shadows of a vallenwood. With its ill-fitting shutters, shabby curtains, and straggling, half-dead plants, the house looked nearly as forlorn and neglected as the children who inhabited it.
Their father—Gilon Majere, a big man with a broad and cheerful face, a face whose natural placidity was marred by a worry line between his brows—had not come home that night. He had traveled far from Solace on a job for a lord with an estate on Crystalmir Lake. Their mother was awake, but she had been awake since midnight.
Rosamun sat in her rocking chair, a skein of wool in her thin hands. She would wind the wool into a tight ball, tear it apart, and then rewind it. All the while she worked, she sang to herself in an eerie low-pitched voice or sometimes paused to hold conversations with people who were not visible to anyone except her.
If her husband—a gentle, caring man—had been at home, he would have persuaded her to leave off her “knitting” and go to bed. Once in bed, she would continue to sing, would be up again in an hour.
Rosamun had her good days, her lucid periods, when she was cognizant of much of what was going on around her, if not particularly interested in participating in it. The daughter of a wealthy merchant, she had always relied on servants to do her bidding. Now they could not afford servants, and Rosamun was inept at running a household herself. If she was hungry, she might cook something. There might be enough left over for the rest of the family, provided she didn’t forget about the food completely and leave it to burn in the kettle.
When she fancied she was doing the mending, she would sit in her chair with a basket of torn clothes in her lap and stare out the window. Or she might put her worn cloak about her shoulders and go “visiting,” wandering the shaded walkways to call on one of their neighbors, who generally kept an eye out for her and managed to be gone when Rosamun rang the bell. She had been known to forget where she was and would stay in someone’s house for hours until her sons found her and fetched her home.
Sometimes she would recall stories about her first husband, Gregor uth Matar, a rogue and a rake, of whom she was stupidly proud and still loved, though he had abandoned her years before.
“Gregor was a Solamnic knight,” she was saying, talking to her unseen listeners. “And he did so love me. He was the most handsome man in Palanthas, and all the girls were mad about him. But he chose me. He brought me roses, and he sang songs beneath my window and took me riding on his black horse. He is dead now. I know it. He is dead now, or he would have come back to me. He died a hero, you know.”
Gregor uth Matar had been declared dead, at any rate. No one had seen or heard from him in seven years, and most believed that if he wasn’t decently dead he should have been. His loss was not generally mourned. He might well have been a knight of Solamnia, but if so he had been banished from that strict order years ago. It was known that he, his new wife, and their baby daughter had left Palanthas by night and in a hurry. Rumor followed him from Solamnia to Solace, whispering that he had committed murder and had escaped the hangman only by means of money and a fast horse.
He was darkly handsome. Wit and charm made him a welcome companion in any tavern, as did his courage—not even his enemies could fault him on that—and his willingness to drink, gamble, and fight. Rosamun spoke truly about one of his traits. Women adored him.
An avowed fragile beauty, with auburn hair, eyes the color of a summer forest, and silken white skin, Rosamun had been the one to conquer him. He had fallen in love with her with all of his passionate nature, had remained in love with her longer than might have been expected. But when love died, it could never, for him, be rekindled.
They had lived well in Solace. Gregor made periodic journeys back to Solamnia, whenever money was running low. His highly placed family apparently paid him well to keep out of their lives. Then came the year he returned empty-handed. Rumor held it that Gregor’s family had finally cut him off. His creditors pressing him hard, he traveled north to Sanction to sell his sword to whoever would have him. He continued to do so, coming back home at intervals but never staying long. Rosamun was wildly jealous, accused him of leaving her for other women. Their quarrels could be heard throughout most of Solace.
And then one day Gregor left and never returned. Rumor agreed that he was probably dead, either from a sword thrust in front or, more likely, a knife in the back.
One person did not believe him to be dead. Kitiara lived for the day when she would be able to leave Solace and set out in search of her father.
She talked of this as she did what she could, in her impatient way, to ready her little brother for his journey to his new school. Raistlin’s few clothes—a couple of shirts, some trousers, and some oft-mended stockings—were done up in a bundle, along with a thick cloak for the winter.
“I’ll be gone by spring,” Kit was saying. “This place is too stupid for words.” She lined her brothers up for inspection. “What do you think you’re doing? You can’t go to school dressed like that!”
Grabbing Raistlin, she pointed at his bare and dusty feet. “You have to wear shoes.”
“In the summer?” Caramon was stunned.
“Mine don’t fit me,” Raistlin said. He’d had a small growth spurt that spring. He was now as tall as his twin, if only about half his weight and a quarter of his girth.
“Here. Wear these.” Kit hunted out a pair of Caramon’s old shoes from last winter and tossed them at Raistlin.
“They’ll pinch my toes,” he protested, regarding them glumly.
“Wear them,” Kit ordered. “All the other boys in the school wear shoes, don’t they? Only peasants go barefoot. That’s what my father says.”
Raistlin made no reply. He slid his feet into the worn shoes.
Picking up a dirty dishcloth, Kit dipped it in the water bucket and scrubbed Raistlin’s face and ears so vigorously that he was certain at least half his skin must be missing.
Squirming free of his sister’s grasp, Raistlin saw that Rosamun dropped her ball of wool on the floor. Her beauty had faded, like a rainbow fades when the storm clouds overtake the sun. Her hair was drab and lusterless, her eyes had too bright a luster, the luster of fever or madness. Her pale skin had a gray cast to it. She stared vaguely at her empty hands, as if she were wondering what to do with them. Caramon picked up the wool, handed it to her.
“Here, Mother.”
“Thank you, child.” She turned her vacant gaze to him. “Gregor’s dead, do you know that, child?”
“Yes, Mother,” Caramon said, not really hearing her.
Rosamun would often make incongruous statements like this. Her children were used to them
and generally ignored them. But this morning Kitiara rounded on her mother in sudden fury. “He’s not dead! What do you know? He never cared for you! Don’t say things like that, you crazy old witch!”
Rosamun smiled and twined her wool and sang to herself. Her boys stood nearby, quiet, unhappy. Kit’s words hurt them far more than they hurt Rosamun, who wasn’t paying the slightest attention to her daughter.
“He’s not dead! I know it and I’m going to find him!” Kitiara declared, her vow low and fervent.
“How do you know he’s alive?” Caramon asked. “And if he is, how will you find him? I’ve heard there are lots of people in Solamnia. Even more than here in Solace.”
“I’ll find him,” Kit replied confidently. “He told me how.” She gazed at them speculatively. “Look, this is probably the last time you’ll see me for a long while. Come here. I’ll show you something if you promise not to tell.”
Leading them into the small room where she slept, she produced from her mattress a crudely crafted, handmade leather pouch. “In here. This is my fortune.”
“Money?” Caramon asked, brightening.
“No!” Kitiara scoffed at the notion. “Something better than money. My birthright.”
“Let me see!” Caramon begged.
Kitiara refused. “I promised my father I would never show it to anyone. At least not yet. Someday, though, you will see it. When I come back rich and powerful and riding at the head of my armies, then you will see it.”
The Soulforge Page 5
