Master Theobald frowned.
“Silence, please. Jon Farnish, do not let these rowdy individuals upset you.”
“I’ll try not to, Master,” said Jon Farnish.
“Continue, please.”
“Yes, Master.” Jon Farnish thrust his hand into his pouch. “The first plant I gathered—”
He halted, sucked in a breath, gasped, and screeched in pain. Flinging the pouch to the floor, he wrung his right hand.
“Something … something stung me!” he babbled. “Ow! It hurts like fire! Ow!”
Tears streamed down his cheeks. He thrust his hand beneath his armpit and did a little dance of agony in the front of the room.
Only one of his classmates was smiling now.
Master Theobald rose to his feet, hastened forward. Prying loose Jon’s hand, the mage examined it, gave a grunt. “Go into the kitchen and ask cook for some butter to put on it.”
“What is it?” Jon Farnish gasped between moans. “A wasp? A snake?”
Picking up the pouch, Master Theobald peered inside. “You silly boy. You’ve picked stinging nettle leaves. Perhaps from now on, you’ll pay more attention in class. Go along with you and stop sniveling. Raistlin Majere, come forward.”
Raistlin walked to the front of the class, made a polite bow to the master. Turning, he faced his classmates. His gaze swept the room. They stared back at him in sullen silence, their lips compressed, eyes shifting away from his triumphant gaze.
They knew. They understood.
Raistlin thrust his hand into his pouch, drew forth some fragrant leaves. “The first plant I am going to talk about today is marjoram. Marjoram is a spice, named for one of the old gods, Majere.…”
2
THE FIRST FEW DAYS OF THE SUMMER OF RAISTLIN’S THIRTEENTH year were unusually hot. The leaves of the vallenwoods hung limp and lifeless in the breathless air. The sun bronzed Caramon’s skin, burned Raistlin’s as the two made the daily trek back and forth from school to home in the farmer’s cart.
In school, the pupils were dull and stupid from the heat, spent the days swatting at flies, dozing off, waking to the sting of Master Theobald’s willow branch. Finally even Master Theobald conceded that they were accomplishing nothing. Besides, there was the Wizards’ Conclave he wanted to attend. He gave his students a holiday for eight weeks. School would recommence in autumn, after the harvest.
Raistlin was thankful for the holiday; at least it was a break in the dull routine. Yet he hadn’t been home for more than a day before he wished he was back in school. Reminded of the teasing, the cabbage, and Master Theobald, he wondered why he wasn’t happy at home. And then he realized he wouldn’t be happy anywhere. He felt restless, dissatisfied.
“You need a girl,” Caramon advised.
“I hardly think so,” Raistlin answered acerbically. He glanced over to a group of three sisters, pretending to be wholly absorbed in hanging the laundry over the vallenwood limbs to dry. But their attention was not on shirts and petticoats. Their eyes darted daring, smiling glances at Caramon. “Do you realize how silly you look, my brother? You and the others? Puffing up your chests and flexing your muscles, throwing axes at trees or flailing away at each other with your fists. All for what? To gain the attention of some giggling girl!”
“I get more than giggles, Raist,” Caramon said, with a lewd wink. “Come on over. I’ll introduce you. Lucy said she thought you were cute.”
“I have ears, Caramon,” Raistlin returned coldly. “What she said was that your baby brother was cute.”
Caramon flushed, uncomfortable. “She didn’t mean it, Raist. She didn’t know. I explained to her that we were the same age, and—”
Raistlin turned and walked away. The girl’s heedless words had hurt him deeply, and his pain angered him, for he wanted to be above caring what anyone thought of him. It was this traitorous body of his, first sickly and frail, now teasing him with vague longings and half-understood desires. He considered it all disgusting anyway. Caramon was behaving like a stag during rutting season.
Girls, or the lack of them, were not his problem, at least not all of it. He wondered uneasily what was.
The heat broke suddenly that night in a violent thunderstorm. Raistlin lay awake to watch the bolts of light streak the roiling clouds with eerie pinks and oranges. He reveled in the booms of thunder that shook the vallenwoods and vibrated through the floorboards. A blinding flash, a deafening explosion, the smell of sulfur, and the sound of shattering wood told of a lightning strike nearby. Shouts of “Fire!” were partially lost in the crashing thunder. Caramon and Gilon braved the torrential rain to go out to help battle the blaze. Fire was their worst enemy. Though the vallenwood trees were more resistant to fire than most others, a blaze out of control could destroy their entire tree town. Raistlin stayed with his mother, who wept and trembled and wondered why her husband hadn’t remained home to comfort her. Raistlin watched the progress of the flames, his spellbooks clasped fast in his hand in case he and his mother had to run for it.
The storm ended at dawn. Only one tree had been hit, three houses burned. No one had been injured; the families had escaped in time. The ground was littered with leaves and blasted limbs, the air was tainted with the sickening smell of smoke and wet wood. All around Solace, small streams and creeks were out of their banks. Fields that had been parched were now flooded.
Raistlin left his home to view the damage, along with almost every other person in Solace. He then walked to the edge of the tree line to see the rising water. He stared at the churning waters of the creek. Normally placid, it was now foam-flecked, swirling angrily, gnawing away at the banks that had long held it confined.
Raistlin felt complete sympathy.
Autumn came, bringing cool, crisp days and fat, swollen moons; brilliant colors, reds and golds. The rustle and swirl of the falling leaves did not cheer Raistlin’s mood. The change of the season, the bittersweet melancholy that belongs to autumn, which brings both the harvest and the withering frost, served only to exacerbate his ill humor.
This day, he would return to school, resume boarding with Master Theobald. Raistlin looked forward to going back to school as he had looked forward to leaving—it was a change, at least. And at least his brain would have something to do besides torment him with images of golden curls, sweet smiles, swelling breasts, and fluttering eyelashes.
The late autumn morning was chill; frost glistened on the red and golden leaves of the vallenwood and rimed the wooden walkways, making them slippery and treacherous before the sun came out to dry them. Clouds hung gray and lowering over the Sentinel Peaks. The smell of snow was in the air. There would be snow on the mountaintop by the end of the week.
Raistlin thrust his clothes into a bag: two homespun shirts, underclothes, an extra pair of slops, woolen stockings. Most of his clothes were new, made by his mother. He needed the new clothes. He had gained in height that summer, keeping up with Caramon, though he lacked the bulk of his sturdy brother. The added height only served to emphasize Raistlin’s excessive thinness.
Rosamun came out of her bedroom. Pausing, she stared at him with her faded blue eyes. “Whatever are you doing, child?”
Raistlin glanced up warily from his work. His mother’s soft brown hair was brushed and combed and neatly arranged beneath a cap. She was wearing a clean skirt and bodice over a new blouse, a blouse she had sewn herself under the Widow Judith’s tutelage.
Raistlin had tensed instinctively at the sound of her voice. Now, seeing her, he relaxed. His mother was having another good day. She had not had a bad day during his stay at home that summer, and Raistlin supposed they had the Widow Judith to thank for it.
He did not know what to make of the Widow Judith. He had been prepared to distrust her, prepared to discover something nefarious about her, some hidden motive for her selflessness. Thus far his suspicions had proven unfounded. She was what she appeared—a widow in her forties, with a pleasant face, smooth hands with long, gracefu
l fingers, a melodious voice, a way with words, and an engaging laugh that always brought a smile to Rosamun’s pale, thin face.
The Majere house was now clean and well organized, something it had never been before the Widow Judith’s arrival. Rosamun ate meals at regular hours. She slept through the night, went to market, went visiting—always accompanied by the Widow Judith.
The Widow Judith was friendly to Raistlin, though she was not as free and easy with him as she was with Caramon. She was more reserved around Raistlin, and, he realized, she always seemed to be watching him. He could not do anything around the house without feeling her eyes on him.
“She knows you don’t like her, Raist,” Caramon said to him accusingly.
Raistlin shrugged. That was true, though he couldn’t quite explain why. He did not like her and was quite certain she didn’t like him.
One of the reasons may have been that Rosamun, Gilon, Caramon, and the Widow Judith were a family. and Raistlin was not part of it. This was not because he hadn’t been invited, but because he willfully chose to remain on the outside. During the evenings when Gilon was home, the four would sit outdoors, joking and telling stories. Raistlin would remain indoors, poring over his school notes.
Gilon was a changed man now that his wife had been rescued from her storm-tossed mind, and was apparently resting comfortably in safer waters. The worry lines smoothed from his brow, he laughed more often. He and his wife could actually carry on a relatively normal conversation.
Summer work was closer to home; Gilon was able to be with his family more often. Everyone was pleased about this except Raistlin, who had grown accustomed to his father being gone, felt constrained when the big man was around. He didn’t particularly like the change in his mother, either. He rather missed her odd fancies and flights, missed the times she had been his alone. He didn’t like the new warmth between her and Gilon; their closeness made him feel further isolated.
Caramon was obviously Gilon’s favorite, and Caramon adored his father. Gilon tried to take an interest in the other twin, but the big woodsman was very like the trees he cut—slow growing, slow moving, slow thinking. Gilon could not understand Raistlin’s love of magic and though he had approved sending his son to the mage school, Gilon had secretly hoped the child would find it tedious and leave. He continued to nurture the same hope and always looked disappointed on the day when school recommenced and Raistlin began packing. But amidst the disappointment, there was now a relief. Raistlin this summer had been like a stranger boarding with the family, an irritable, unfriendly stranger. Gilon would never admit this, even to himself, but he was going to be glad to see one of his sons depart.
The feeling was mutual. Raistlin sometimes felt sorry he couldn’t love his father more, and he was vaguely aware that Gilon was sorry he couldn’t love his strange, unchancy son.
No matter, Raistlin thought, rolling up his stockings into a ball. Tomorrow I will be gone. He found it difficult to believe, but he was actually looking forward to the smell of cooked cabbage.
“What are you doing with your clothes, Raistlin?” Rosamun asked.
“I am packing, Mother. I return to Master Theobald’s tomorrow to board there over the winter.” He tried a smile at her. “Had you forgotten?”
“No,” Rosamun said in tones colder than the frost. “I was hoping that you would not be going back there.”
Raistlin halted his packing to regard his mother with astonishment. He had expected such words from his father.
“What? Not go back to my studies? Why would you think such a thing, Mother?”
“It is wicked, Raistlin!” Rosamun cried vehemently; with a passion frightening in its intensity. “Wicked, I tell you!” She stomped her foot, drew herself up. “I forbid you to go back there. Ever!”
“Mother …” Raistlin was shocked, alarmed, perplexed. He had no idea what to say. She had never before protested his chosen field of study. He had wondered, at times, if she even knew he was studying magic, much less cared. “Mother, some people think ill of mages, but I assure you that they are wrong.”
“Gods of evil!” she intoned in a hollow voice. “You worship gods of evil, and at their behest, you perform unnatural acts and unholy rites!”
“The most unnatural thing I’ve done so far, Mother, is to fall off my stool and nearly split my skull open,” said Raistlin dryly. Her accusations were so ludicrous, he found it difficult to take this conversation seriously.
“Mother, I spend my days droning away after my master, learning to say ‘ah’ and ‘oo’ and ‘uh.’ I cover myself with ink and occasionally manage to write something that is almost legible on a bit of parchment or scroll. I tramp about in fields picking flowers. That is what I do, Mother. That is all I do,” he said bitterly. “And I assure you that Caramon’s job mucking out stables and picking corn is far more interesting and far more exciting than magic.”
He stopped talking, astonished at himself, astonished at his own feelings. Now he understood. Now he knew what had been chafing at him all summer. He understood the anger and frustration that bubbled like molten steel inside him. Anger and frustration, tempered by fear and self-doubt.
Ink and flowers. Reciting meaningless words day after day. Where was the magic? When would it come to him?
Would it come to him?
He shook with a sudden chill.
Rosamun put her arm around his waist, rested her cheek against his. “You see? Your skin—it’s hot to the touch. I think you must have a fever. Don’t go back to that dreadful school! You only make yourself sick. Stay here with me. I will teach you all you need to know. We will read books together and work out sums like we used to do when you were little. You will keep me company.”
Raistlin found the idea surprisingly tempting. No more of the inanities of Master Theobald. No more silent, lonely nights in the dormitory, nights made all the more lonely because he was not alone. No more of this inner torment, this constant questioning.
What had happened to the magic? Where had it gone? Why did his blood burn more at the sight of some silly giggling girl than it did when he copied down his oas and ais?
He had lost the magic. Either that, or the magic had never been there. He had been fooling himself. It was time to admit defeat. Admit that he had failed. Return home. Shut himself away in this cozy, snug room, warm, safe, surrounded by his mother’s love. He would take care of her. He would send the Widow Judith packing.
Raistlin bowed his head, unwilling she should see his bitter unhappiness. Rosamun never noticed, however. She caressed his cheek and playfully turned his face to the looking glass. The mirror had come with her from Palanthas. It was her prized possession, one of the few relics of her girlhood.
“We will have such splendid times together, you and I. Look!” she said coaxingly, regarding the two faces in the reflection with complacent pride. “Look how alike we are!”
Raistlin was not superstitious. But her words, spoken in all innocence, were so very ill-omened that he couldn’t help but shudder.
“You’re shivering,” Rosamun said, concerned. “There! I said you had a fever! Come and lie down!”
“No, Mother. I am fine. Mother, please …”
He tried to edge away. Her touch, which had seemed so comforting, was now something loathsome. Raistlin was ashamed and appalled that he felt this way about his mother, but he couldn’t help himself.
She only clasped him more tightly, rested her cheek against his arm. He was taller than she was by at least a head.
“You are so thin,” she said. “Far too thin. Food doesn’t stick to your bones. You fret it away. And that school. I’m sure it’s making you ill. Sickness is a punishment for those who do not walk the paths of righteousness, so the Widow Judith says.”
Raistlin didn’t hear his mother, he wasn’t listening to her. He was suffocating, felt as if someone were pressing a pillow over his nose and mouth. He longed to break free of his mother’s grasp and rush outside, where he could gulp down
huge drafts of fresh air. He longed to run and to keep on running, run into the sweet-scented night, journey along a road that would take him anywhere but here.
At that moment, Raistlin knew a kinship with his half-sister, Kitiara. He understood then why she had left, knew how she must have felt. He envied her the freedom of her life, cursed the frail body that kept him chained to home’s hearth, kept him fettered in his schoolroom.
He had always assumed the magic would free him, as Kitiara’s sword had freed her. But what if the magic did not free him? What if the magic would not come to him? What if he had indeed lost the gift? He looked into the mirror, looked into his mother’s dream-ravaged face, and closed his eyes against the fear.
3
SNOW WAS FALLING. THE BOYS WERE DISMISSED EARLY, TOLD TO go play outdoors until dinner. Exercising in the cold was healthful, expanded the lungs. The boys knew the real reason they were being sent outside. Master Theobald wanted to get rid of them.
He had been strangely preoccupied all that day, his mind—what there was of it—somewhere else. He taught class absent-mindedly, not seeming to care whether they learned anything or not. He had not had recourse to the willow branch once, although one of the boys had drifted off to sleep shortly after lunch and slept soundly and noisily through the remainder of the afternoon.
Most of the boys considered such inattention on their master’s part a welcome change. Three found it extremely uncomfortable, however, due to the fact that he would occasionally lapse into long, vacant silences, his gaze roving among these three eldest in his class.
Raistlin was among the three.
Outside, the other boys took advantage of the heavy snowfall to build a fort, form armies, and pelt each other with snowballs. Raistlin wrapped himself in a warm, thick cloak—a parting gift, oddly enough, from the Widow Judith—and left the others to their stupid games. He went for a walk among a stand of pines on the north side of the school.
The Soulforge Page 10
