Wary of public opinion, aware that they were not universally liked or trusted, the wizards took care not to become involved in religious arguments. They taught their pupils that the moons influenced magic much the way they influenced the tides. It was a physical phenomenon, nothing spiritual or mystical about it.
Yet Raistlin wondered. Had the gods truly gone from the world, leaving only their lights burning in night’s window? Or were those lights glints from immortal, ever-watchful eyes? …
Master Theobald turned to the wooden shelves behind him, opened a drawer. He drew out three strips of lamb’s skin, placed a strip in front of each boy. Jon Farnish was taking this quite seriously now, after the master’s speech. Gordo was resigned, sullen, wanting to end this and return to his mates. He was probably already concocting the lies he would tell about the master’s laboratory.
Raistlin examined the small strip of lamb’s skin, no longer than his forearm. The skin was soft, it had never been used, was smooth to the touch.
The master placed a quill pen and an inkpot in front of each of the three boys. Standing back, he folded his hands over his stomach and said, in solemn, sonorous tones, “You will write down on this lamb’s skin the words I, Magus.”
“Nothing else, Master?” asked Jon Farnish.
“Nothing else.”
Gordo squirmed and bit the end of his quill. “How do you spell Magus?”
Master Theobald fixed him with a reproving stare. “That is part of the test!”
“What … what will happen if we do it right, Master?” Raistlin asked in a voice that he could not recognize as his own.
“If you have the gift, something will happen. If not, nothing,” replied Master Theobald. He did not look at Raistlin as he spoke.
He wants me to fail, Raistlin understood, without quite knowing why. The master did not like him, but that wasn’t the reason. Raistlin guessed that it had something to do with jealousy of his sponsor, Antimodes. The knowledge strengthened his resolve.
He picked up the quill, which was black, had come from the wing of a crow. Various types of quills were used to write various scrolls: an eagle’s feather was extremely powerful, as was that of the swan. A goose quill was for everyday, ordinary writing, only to be used for magical penning in an emergency. A crow quill was useful for almost any type of magic, though some of the more fanatic White Robes objected to its color.
Raistlin touched the feather with his finger. He was extraordinarily conscious of the feather’s feel, its crispness contrasting oddly with its softness. Rainbows, cast by the globe light, shimmered on the feather’s glistening black surface. The point was newly cut, sharp. No cracked and sputtering pen for this important event.
The smell of the ink reminded him of Antimodes and the time he had praised Raistlin’s work. Raistlin had long ago discovered, through eavesdropping on a conversation between the master and Gilon, that Antimodes was paying the bill for this school, not the conclave, as the archmagus had intimated. This test would prove if his investment had been sound.
Raistlin prepared to dip the quill in the ink, then hesitated, feeling a qualm of near panic. Everything he had been taught seemed to slide from his mind, like butter melting in a hot skillet. He could not remember how to spell Magus! The quill shook in his sweaty fingers. He glanced sidelong, through lowered lashes, at the other two.
“I’m done,” said Gordo.
Ink covered his fingers; he’d managed to splash it on his face, where the black splotches overlapped the brown freckles. He held up the scroll, on which he’d first printed the word Magos. Having sneaked a peak at Jon Farnish’s scroll, Gordo had hastily crossed out Magos and written Magus in next to it.
“I’m done,” Gordo repeated loudly. “What happens now?”
“For you, nothing,” said Theobald with a severe look.
“But I wrote the word just as good as him,” Gordo protested, sulking.
“Have you learned nothing, you stupid boy?” Theobald demanded angrily. “A word of magic must be written perfectly, spelled correctly, the first time. You are writing not only with the lamb’s blood but with your own blood. The magic flows through you and into the pen and from thence onto the scroll.”
“Oh, bugger it,” said Gordo, and he shoved the scroll off the table.
Jon Farnish was writing with ease, seemingly, the pen gliding over the sheepskin, a spot of ink on his right forefinger. His handwriting was readable, but tended to be cramped and small.
Raistlin dipped the quill in the ink and began to write, in sharply angled, bold, large letters, the words I, Magus.
Jon Farnish sat back, a look of satisfaction on his face. Raistlin, just finishing, heard the boy catch his breath. Raistlin looked up.
The letters on the sheepskin in front of Jon Farnish had begun to glow. The glow was faint, a dim red-orange, a spark newly struck, struggling for life.
“Garn!” said Gordo, impressed. This almost made up for the demon.
“Well done, Jon,” said Master Theobald expansively.
Flushed with pleasure, Jon Farnish gazed in awe at the parchment and then he laughed. “I have it!” he cried.
Master Theobald turned his gaze to Raistlin. Though the master attempted to appear concerned, one corner of his lip curled.
The black letters on the sheepskin in front of Raistlin remained black.
Raistlin clutched the quill so violently he snapped off the top. He looked away from the exultant Jon Farnish, he paid no attention to the scornful Gordo, he blotted from his mind the leering triumph of the master. He concentrated on the letters in I, Magus and he said a prayer.
“Gods of magic, if you are gods and not just moons, don’t let me fail, don’t let me falter.”
Raistlin turned inward, to the very core of his being, and he vowed, I will do this. Nothing in my life matters except this. No moment of my life exists except this moment. I am born in this moment, and if I fail, I will die in this moment.
Gods of magic, help me! I will dedicate my life to you. I will serve you always. I will bring glory to your name. Help me, please, help me!
He wanted this so much. He had worked so hard for it, for so long. He focused on the magic, concentrated all his energy. His frail body began to wilt beneath the strain. He felt faint and giddy. The globe of light expanded in his dazed vision to three globes. The floor was unsteady beneath him. He lowered his head in despair to the stone table.
The stone was cool and firm beneath his fevered cheek. He shut his eyes, hot tears burned the lids. He could still see, imprinted on his eyelids, the three globes of magical light.
To his astonishment, he saw that inside each globe was a person.
One was a fine, handsome young man, dressed all in white robes that shimmered with a silver light. He was strong and well muscled, with the physique of a warrior. He carried in his hand a staff of wood, topped by a golden dragon’s claw holding a diamond.
Another was also a young man, but he was not handsome. He was grotesque. His face was as round as a moon, his eyes were dry, dark and empty wells. He was dressed in black robes, and he held in his hands a crystal orb, inside which swirled the heads of five dragons: red, green, blue, white, and black.
Standing between the two was a beautiful young woman. Her hair was as black as the crow’s wing, streaked with white. Her robes were as red as blood. She held, in her arms, a large leather-bound book.
The three were vastly different, strangely alike.
“Do you know who we are?” asked the man in white.
Raistlin nodded hesitantly. He knew them. He wasn’t quite sure he understood why or how.
“You pray to us, yet many speak our names with their lips only, not their hearts. Do you truly believe in us?” asked the woman in red.
Raistlin considered this question. “You came to me, didn’t you?” he answered. The glib answer displeased the god of light and the god of darkness. The man with the moon face grew colder, and the man in white looked grim. The wom
an in red was pleased with him, however. She smiled.
Solinari spoke sternly. “You are very young. Do you understand the promise you have made to us? The promise to worship us and glorify our names? To do so will go against the beliefs of many, may put you into mortal danger.”
“I understand,” Raistlin answered without hesitation.
Nuitari spoke next, his voice like splinters of ice. “Are you prepared to make the sacrifices we will require of you?”
“I am prepared,” Raistlin answered steadily, adding, but only to himself, after all, what more can you demand of me that I have not already given?
The three heard his unspoken response. Solinari shook his head. Nuitari wore a most sinister grin.
Lunitari’s laughter danced through Raistlin, exhilarating, disturbing. “You do not understand. And if you could foresee what will be asked of you in the future, you would run from this place and never come back. Still, we have watched you and we have been impressed with you. We grant your request on one condition. Remember always that you have seen us and spoken to us. Never deny your faith in us, or we will deny you.”
The three globes of light coalesced into one, looking very much like an eye, with a white rim, a red iris, a black pupil. The eye blinked once and then remained wide open, staring.
The words I, Magus were all he could see, black on white lamb’s skin.
“Are you ill, Raistlin?” The master’s voice, as through a dank fog.
“Shut up!” Raistlin breathed. Doesn’t the fool know they are here? Doesn’t he know they are watching, waiting?
“I, Magus.”Raistlin whispered the words aloud. Black on white, he imbued them with his heart’s blood.
The black letters began to glow red, like the sword resting in the blacksmith’s forge fire. The letters burned hotter and brighter until I, Magus was traced in letters of flame. The lamb’s skin blackened, curled in upon itself, was consumed. The fire died.
Raistlin, exhausted, sagged on his stool. On the stone table before him was nothing but a charred spot and bits of greasy ash. Inside him burned a fire that would never be quenched, perhaps not even in death.
He heard a noise, a sort of strangled croak. Master Theobald, Gordo, and Jon Farnish were all staring at him, wide-eyed and openmouthed.
Raistlin slid off his stool, made a polite bow to the master. “May I be excused now, sir?”
Theobald nodded silently, unable to speak. He would later tell the story at the conclave, tell of the remarkable test performed by one of his young pupils, relate how the lamb’s skin had been devoured by the flames. Theobald added, with due modesty, that it was his skill as a teacher that had undoubtedly inspired his young pupil, wrought such a miracle.
Antimodes would make a special point to inform Par-Salian, who noted the incident with an asterisk next to Raistlin’s name in the book where he kept a list of every student of magic in Ansalon.
That night, when the others were asleep, Raistlin wrapped himself in his thick cloak and slipped outside.
The snow had stopped falling. The stars and moons were scattered like a rich lady’s jewels across the black sky. Solinari was a shining diamond. Lunitari a bright ruby. Nuitari, ebony and onyx, could not be seen, but he was there. He was there.
The snow glistened white and pure and untouched in the lambent light of stars and moons. The trees cast double shadows that streaked the white with black, black tinged with blood-red.
Raistlin looked up at the moons and he laughed, ringing laughter that echoed among the trees, laughter that could be heard all the way to heaven. He dashed headlong into the woods, trampling the white unbroken snow banks, leaving his tracks, his mark.
BOOK 3
The magic is in the blood, it flows from the heart. Every time you use it, part of yourself goes with it. Only when you are prepared to give of yourself and receive nothing back will the magic work for you.
—Theobald Beckman, Master
1
RAISTLIN SAT ON HIS STOOL IN THE CLASSROOM, HUNCHED OVER his desk, laboriously copying a spell. It was a sleep spell, simple for an experienced wizard, but still far beyond the reach of a sixteen-year-old, no matter how precocious. Raistlin knew this because, though he had been forbidden to do so, he had attempted to cast the spell.
Armed with his elementary spellbook, smuggled out of school beneath his shirt, and the requisite spell component, Raistlin had tried to cast the sleep spell on his uneasy but stead-fastly loyal brother. He had spoken the words, flung the sand into Caramon’s face, and waited.
“Stop that, Caramon! Put your hands down.”
“But, Raist! I got sand in my eyes!”
“You’re supposed to be asleep!”
“I’m sorry, Raist. I guess I’m just not tired. It’s almost suppertime.”
With a deep sigh, Raistlin had returned the spellbook to its place at his desk, the sand to its jar in the laboratory. He had been forced to acknowledge that perhaps Master Theobald knew what he was talking about—on this occasion, at least. Casting a magic spell required something more than words and sand. If that was all it took, Gordo would have been a mage and not slaughtering sheep, as he was now.
“The magic comes from within,” Master Theobald had lectured. “It begins at the center of your being, flows outward. The words pick up the magic as it surges from your heart up into your brain and from thence into your mouth. Speaking the words, you give the magic form and substance, and thus you cast the spell. Words spoken from an empty mouth do nothing but move the lips.”
And though Raistlin more than suspected Master Theobald of having copied this lecture from someone else (in fact, Raistlin was to find it several years later, in a book written by Par-Salian), the young student had been impressed by the words and had noted them down carefully in the front of his spellbook.
That speech was in his thoughts as he copied—for the hundredth time—the spell onto scrap paper, preparatory to copying the spell into his primer. A leather-bound book, the primer was given to each novice mage who had passed his initial test. The novitiate would copy into his primer every spell committed to memory. In addition, he must also know how to pronounce correctly the words of the spell and how to write it onto a scroll, and he must know and have collected any components that the spell required.
Every quarter Master Theobald tested the novitiates—there were two in his school, Raistlin and Jon Farnish—on the spells they had learned. If the students performed to the master’s satisfaction, they were permitted to write the spell into their primers. Only yesterday, at the end of the spring quarter, Raistlin had taken the test on his new spell and had passed it easily. Jon Farnish, by contrast, had failed, having transposed two letters in the third word. Master Theobald had given Raistlin permission to copy down the spell—the very sleep spell he had attempted to cast—into his primer. The master had sent Jon Farnish to copy the spell out two hundred times, until he could write it correctly.
Raistlin knew the sleep spell backward and forward and inside out. He could have written it upside down while standing on his head. Yet he could not make it work. He had even prayed to the gods of magic, asking for their help, as they had given him help during his elementary test. The gods were not forthcoming.
He did not doubt the gods. He doubted himself. It was some fault within him, something he was doing wrong. And so, instead of copying the spell into his primer, Raistlin was doing much the same as Jon Farnish, going over and over the words, meticulously writing down every letter until he could convince himself that he had not made a single mistake.
A shadow—a broad shadow—fell across his page.
He looked up. “Yes, Master?” he said, trying to hide his irritation at the interruption and not quite succeeding.
Raistlin had long ago realized that he was smarter than Master Theobald and more gifted in magic. He stayed in the school because there was nowhere else to go, and, as this proved, he still had much to learn. Master Theobald could cast a sleep spell.
/> “Do you know what time it is?” Master Theobald asked. “It is dinnertime. You should be in the common room with the other boys.”
“Thank you, but I’m not hungry, Master,” Raistlin said ungraciously and went back to his work.
Master Theobald frowned. A well-fed man himself, one who enjoyed his meat and ale, he could not understand someone like Raistlin, to whom food was fuel to keep his body going and nothing more.
“Nonsense, you have to eat. What are you doing that is so important it causes you to skip a meal?” Master Theobald could see perfectly well what Raistlin was doing.
“I am working at copying this spell, Master,” Raistlin said, gritting his teeth at the man’s idiocy. “I do not feel ready yet to write in my primer.”
Master Theobald looked down at the scraps of paper littering the desk. He picked up one, then another. “But these are adequate. Quite good, in fact.”
“No, there must be something wrong!” Raistlin said impatiently. “Otherwise I could have been able to cast—”
He had not meant to say that. He bit his tongue and fell silent, glowering down at his ink-stained fingers.
“Ah,” said Master Theobald, with the ghost of a smile, which, since Raistlin was not looking, he did not see. “So you have been attempting a little spellcasting, have you?”
Raistlin did not reply. If he could have cast a spell now, he would have summoned demons from the Abyss and ordered them to haul off Master Theobald.
The master leaned back and laced his fingers over his stomach, which meant that he was about to launch into one of his lectures.
“It didn’t work, I take it. I’m not surprised. You are far too proud, young man. Far too self-absorbed and self-satisfied. You are a taker, not a giver. Everything flows into you. Nothing flows out. The magic is in the blood, it flows from the heart. Every time you use it, part of yourself goes with it. Only when you are prepared to give of yourself and receive nothing back will the magic work for you.”
Raistlin lifted his head, shook his long, straight brown hair out of his face. He stared straight ahead. “Yes, Master,” he said coldly, impassively. “Thank you, Master.”
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