The Soulforge

by Margaret Weis

  “Gordo, sir.” The boy made an awkward bow.

  “And so, Gordo, my boy” said Antimodes, embarrassed himself but attempting to conceal it, “how do you plan to incorporate the use of magic into your everyday life?”

  “Well, s-sir,” Gordo stammered, obviously baffled, “I don’t rightly know.”

  Antimodes frowned.

  The boy grew defensive. “I’m only here, sir, ’cause my ma makes me come. I don’t want to have nothing to do with magic.”

  “What do you want to do?” Antimodes asked, surprised.

  “I want to be a butcher,” Gordo said promptly.

  Antimodes sighed. “Perhaps you should have a talk with your mother. Explain to her how you feel.”

  The boy shook his head, shrugged. “I’ve tried. It’s all right, sir. I’ll stay here until I’m old enough to be apprenticed, then I’ll cut and run.”

  “Thank you,” Antimodes said dryly. “We’ll all appreciate that. Please tell the next boy to come in.”

  By the end of five interviews, Antimodes’s antipathy for Master Theobald had changed to the most profound pity. He also felt alarmed and dismayed. He had learned more in fifteen minutes talking to these five boys than he had in five months of traveling throughout Ansalon.

  He was well aware—he and Par-Salian had often discussed it—that mages were viewed with suspicion and distrust by the general populace. That was as it should be. Wizards should be surrounded with an aura of mystery. Their spellcasting should inspire awe and a proper amount of fear.

  He found no awe among these boys. No fear. Not even much respect. Antimodes might blame Master Theobald and did blame the master for some of the problem. Certainly he did nothing to inspire his students, to lift them from the common everyday muck of ignorance in which they were wallowing. But there was more to it than that.

  There were no children of nobles in this school. Insofar as Antimodes knew, there were few children of nobles in any of the schools of magic in Ansalon. Only among the elves was the study of the arcane considered suitable for the upper class, and even they were discouraged from devoting their lives to it. King Lorac of Silvanesti had been one of the last elves of royal blood known to have taken the Test. Most were like Gilthanas, youngest son of the Speaker of the Sun and Stars of Qualinesti. Gilthanas could have been an excellent mage, had he taken the time to study the art. But he merely dabbled in magic, refused to take the Test, refused to commit himself.

  As to humans, these children were sons of middle-class merchants, most of them. That wasn’t bad—Antimodes himself had come from such a background. He at least had known what he wanted and had been willing to fight for it, his parents having been completely opposed to the very idea of his studying magic. But these children had been sent here because their parents had no idea what else to do with them. They were sent to study magic because they weren’t considered good enough to do anything else.

  Were wizards truly held in such low regard?

  Depressed, Antimodes huddled down in the overstuffed chair, as far from the fire as he could drag it, and mulled this over in his mind. The depression had been growing on him ever since his trip to Solamnia.

  The knights and their families had been polite, but then they would always be polite to any well-to-do, fair-spoken traveling human stranger. They had invited Antimodes to stay in their dwellings, they had fed him roast meats, fine wines, and entertained him with minstrels. They had not ever once discussed magic, had never asked him to assist them with his spellcasting, or made reference to the fact that he was a wizard. If he brought it up, they smiled at him vaguely and then quickly changed the subject. It was as if he had some type of deformity or disease. They were too polite, too well bred to shun him or openly revile him for it. But he was well aware that they averted their glances when they thought he wasn’t looking. In truth, he disgusted them.

  And he disgusted himself. He saw himself for the first time through the eyes of these children. He had tamely gone along with the knights’ cold-shouldered treatment, had even curried their favor in a most undignified manner. He had suppressed who and what he was. He had not unpacked his white robes once during the trip. He had removed his pouches of spell components and hidden the scroll cases under the bed.

  “At my age, you’d think I would know better,” he said to himself sourly. “What a fool I made of myself. They must have rolled their eyes and breathed sighs of relief when I left. It is a good thing Par-Salian doesn’t know of this. I’m thankful I never mentioned my intention of traveling to Solamnia to him.”

  “Greetings again, Archmagus,” said a child’s voice.

  Antimodes blinked, returned to the present. Raistlin had entered the room. The archmage had been looking forward to this meeting. He had taken a keen interest in the boy since the first time they’d met. The conversations with the other children had been merely a ruse, contrived in order to have the chance to talk privately with this one extraordinary child. But his recent discoveries had so devastated Antimodes that he found no pleasure in talking with the one student who showed any aptitude at all for magic.

  What future lay ahead for this boy? A future in which wizards were stoned to death? At least, Antimodes thought bitterly, the populace had feared Esmilla, the black-robed wizardess, and fear implies a certain amount of respect. How much worse if they had merely laughed at her! But wasn’t that where they were heading? Would magic end up in the hands of disappointed butchers?

  Raistlin coughed slightly and shifted nervously on his feet. Antimodes realized that he’d been staring at the child in silence, long enough to make Raistlin feel uncomfortable.

  “Forgive me, Raistlin,” Antimodes said, motioning the boy to come forward. “I have traveled far and I am weary. And my trip was not entirely satisfactory.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, sir,” Raistlin said, regarding Antimodes with those blue eyes that were much too old and wise.

  “And I am sorry that I praised your work in the schoolroom.” Antimodes smiled ruefully. “I should have known better.”

  “Why, sir?” Raistlin was puzzled. “Wasn’t it good, as you said?”

  “Well, yes, but your classmates … I should not have singled you out. I know boys your age, you see. I was a bit of a rascal myself, I’m sorry to say. I’m afraid they’ll be hard on you.”

  Raistlin shrugged his thin shoulders. “They’re ignorant.”

  “Ahem. Well, now.” Antimodes frowned, disapproving. It was all very proper for him, an adult, to think this, but it seemed wrong in the child to say it. Disloyal.

  “They can’t rise to my level,” Raistlin continued, “and so they want to drag me down to theirs. Sometimes”—the blue eyes staring at Antimodes were as clear and brilliant as glare ice—“they hurt me.”

  “I … I’m sorry,” Antimodes said, a lame statement, but then he was so completely taken aback by this child, by his coolness and astute observations, that he could think of nothing more intelligent.

  “Don’t be sorry for me!” Raistlin flared, and there was the flash of fire on the ice. “I don’t mind,” he added more calmly and shrugged again. “It’s a compliment, really. They’re afraid of me.”

  The populace had feared Esmilla, the black-robed wizardess, and fear implies a certain amount of respect. How much worse if they had merely laughed at her! Antimodes recalled his own thoughts. Hearing them repeated in this childish treble sent a shiver up his spine. A child should not be this wise, should not be forced to bear the burden of such cynical wisdom this young.

  Raistlin smiled then, an ingenuous smile. “It’s a hammer blow. I think about what you told me, sir. How the hammer blows forge the soul. And the water cools them. Except I don’t cry. Or if I do,” he added, his voice hardening, “it’s when they can’t see me.”

  Antimodes stared, amazed and confused. Part of him wanted to hug close this precocious child, while another part warned him to snatch the child up and toss him into the fire, crush him as one crushes the e
gg of a viper. This dichotomy of emotion so unsettled him that he was forced to rise to his feet and take a turn about the room before he felt capable of continuing the conversation.

  Raistlin stood silently, waiting patiently for the adult to finish indulging himself in the strange and inexplicable behavior adults often exhibited. The boy’s gaze left Antimodes and strayed to the book shelves, where the gaze focused and sharpened with a hungry edge.

  That reminded Antimodes of something he’d meant to tell the boy and had, in the ensuing disturbing conversation, almost forgotten. He returned to his chair, sat forward in the seat.

  “I meant to tell you, young man. I saw your sister when I was in … on my travels.”

  Raistlin’s gaze darted back to the archmage, was alight with interest. “Kitiara? You saw her, sir?”

  “Yes. I was quite astonished, I may tell you. One doesn’t expect … a girl that age …” He paused, not quite certain where, under the light of the lad’s blue eyes, to go from here.

  Raistlin understood. “She left home shortly after I was enrolled in the school, Archmagus. I think she’d wanted to leave before that, but she was worried about Caramon and me. Me especially. She figures that now I can take care of myself.”

  “You’re still only a child,” Antimodes said sternly, deciding precociousness had gone far enough.

  “But I can take care of myself,” Raistlin said, and the smile—the smirk Antimodes had seen earlier—touched his lips. The smile widened when Master Theobald’s loud, haranguing voice was heard booming through the door.

  “Kitiara came home a couple of months after she left, before winter set in,” Raistlin continued. “She gave Father some money to pay for her room and board. He said it wasn’t necessary but she said it was; she wouldn’t take anything from him ever again. She wore a sword, a real one. It had dried blood on it. She gave Caramon a sword, but Father was angry and took it away from him. She didn’t stay long. Where did you see her?”

  “I can’t quite recall the name of the place,” Antimodes said, carefully evasive. “These small towns. They all look alike after a while. She was in a tavern with some … companions.”

  Disreputable companions, he almost said, but he didn’t, not wanting to upset the child, who seemed genuinely fond of his half-sister. He had seen her among mercenary soldiers of the very worst sort, the kind who sell their swords for money and are willing to sell their souls, too, if anyone happened to want the wretched things.

  “She told me a story about you,” Antimodes went on quickly, not giving the child time to ask more questions. “She said that when your father first brought you here, to Master Theobald’s, you came into his library—this very room—sat down and began to read one of the books of magic.”

  At first Raistlin looked startled, then he smiled. Not the smirk, but a mischievous grin that reminded Antimodes that this boy really was only six years old.

  “That wouldn’t be possible,” Raistlin said, with a sidelong glance at Antimodes. “I’m only now learning to read and write magic.”

  “I know it’s not possible,” Antimodes replied, smiling himself. The boy could be quite charming when he chose. “Where would she have come by such a story, then?”

  “My brother,” Raistlin answered. “We were in the classroom, and my father and the master were talking about letting me enter the school. The master didn’t want to admit me.”

  Antimodes raised his eyebrows, shocked. “How do you know? Did he say so?”

  “Not in so many words. But he said I wasn’t properly brought up. I should speak only when I was addressed, and I should keep my eyes down and not ‘stare him out of countenance.’ That’s what he said. I was ‘pert’ and ‘glib’ and ‘disrespectful.’ ”

  “So you are, Raistlin,” admonished Antimodes, thinking he should. “You should show your master and your classmates more respect.”

  Raistlin shrugged, dismissed them all with that shrug, and continued with his story. “I got bored listening to Father apologize for me, and so Caramon and I went exploring. We came in here. I pulled a book off the shelf. One of the spellbooks. Only a practice one. The master keeps the real spellbooks locked up in his cellar. I know.”

  The child’s voice was cool, serious; the eyes glistened with longing. Antimodes was suitably alarmed and made a mental note to warn Theobald that his precious spellbooks may not be as safe as the master imagined.

  Then suddenly the boy was a boy again. “I may have told Caramon the spellbook was real,” Raistlin said, the mischievous grin returning. “I don’t remember. Anyway, Master Theobald came dashing in, all huffing and puffing and mad. He scolded me for wandering off and ‘invading his privacy,’ and when he saw me with the book, he got madder still. I wasn’t reading a spell. I couldn’t read any of it.

  “But”—Raistlin gave Antimodes a sly glance—“there’s an illusionist in town. His name is Waylan, and I’ve heard him use magic and I memorized some of the words. I know the spells won’t work, but I use them for fun when the other boys are playing at war. I said some of the words. Caramon was all excited and told Father that I was going to summon a demon from the Abyss. Master Theobald got really red in the face and grabbed the book away from me. He knew I wasn’t really reading the words,” Raistlin added coolly. “He just wanted a chance to get rid of me.”

  “Master Theobald accepted you into his school,” said Antimodes sternly. “He didn’t ‘get rid of you,’ as you put it. And what you did was wrong. You should not have taken the book without his permission.”

  “He had to take me,” Raistlin said flatly. “My schooling was bought and paid for.” He stared very hard at Antimodes, who, having expected this, was prepared for it and returned the stare with bland innocence.

  The child had met his match. He lowered his gaze, shifted it to the bookcase. One corner of his mouth twitched. “Caramon must have told Kitiara. He really did think I was going to summon a demon, you know. Caramon’s like a kender. He’ll believe anything you tell him.”

  “Do you love your brother?” Antimodes asked impulsively.

  “Of course,” Raistlin responded blandly, smoothly. “He’s my twin.”

  “Yes, you are twins, aren’t you?” Antimodes said reflectively. “I wonder if your brother has a talent for magic? It would seem logic—”

  He stopped, confounded, struck dumb by the look Raistlin gave him. It was a blow, as if the child had struck out with his fists. No, not with fists. With a dagger.

  Antimodes recoiled, startled unpleasantly by the malevolence in the child’s expression. The question had been idle, harmless. He had certainly not expected such a reaction.

  “May I return to class now, sir?” Raistlin asked politely. His face was smooth, if somewhat pale.

  “Uh, yes. I … uh … enjoyed our visit,” said Antimodes.

  Raistlin made no comment. He bowed politely, as all the boys were taught to bow, then went to the door, opened it.

  A wave of noise and heat, bringing with it the smell of small boys and boiled cabbage and ink, surged into the library, reminding Antimodes of the tide coming in on the dirty beaches at Flotsam. The door shut behind the boy.

  Antimodes sat quite still for long moments, recovering. This was difficult to do at first, because he kept seeing those blue poignard eyes, glittering with anger, sliding through his flesh. Finally, realizing that the day was winding on and that he wanted to reach the Inn of the Last Home before dark, Antimodes shook off the aftereffects of the unfortunate scene and returned to the schoolroom to make his farewells to Master Theobald.

  Raistlin, Antimodes noted, did not look up as he entered.

  The ride along the road on his placid donkey Jenny, past fields green with the early summer’s first blooms, soothed Antimodes’s soul. By the time he reached the inn, he could even laugh at himself ruefully, admit that he’d been in the wrong for asking such a personal question, and shrug off the incident. Putting Jenny up in the public stables, Antimodes wended his way to t
he inn, where he coated his troubles with Otik’s honey mead and slept soundly.

  That meeting was the last time Antimodes would see Raistlin for many years. The archmage maintained his interest in Raistlin and kept current on his advancement through his studies. Whenever a wizards’ conclave was called, Antimodes made it a point to seek out Master Theobald and interrogate him. Antimodes continued paying for Raistlin’s education as well. Hearing of the progress of the pupil, Antimodes considered it money well spent.

  But he would not forget his question about the twin brother.

  Nor would he forget Raistlin’s answer.

  BOOK 2

  I will do this. Nothing in my life matters except this. No moment in my life exists except this moment. I am born in this moment, and if I fail, I will die in this moment.

  —Raistlin Majere

  1

  RAIST! OVER HERE!” CARAMON WAVED FROM THE FRONT OF THE farmer’s cart, which he was driving. At the age of thirteen, so tall and broad and muscular that he often passed for much older, Caramon had become Farmer Sedge’s top field hand.

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

  The only time his anger exploded was when someone threatened his twin. Raistlin lifted his hand to acknowledge his brother’s shout. He was glad to see Caramon, glad to see a friendly face.

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