The Soulforge

by Margaret Weis

  Master Theobald’s tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth. “You are seated on a very high horse right now, young man. Someday you will fall off. If the fall doesn’t kill you, you might learn something from it.” The master grunted. I’m going to dinner now. I’m hungry.”

  Raistlin returned to his work, a scornful smile curling his lips.

  2

  THAT SUMMER, THE SUMMER OF THE TWINS’ SIXTEENTH YEAR, LIFE for the Majere family continued to improve. Gilon had been hired to help cut a stand of pines on the slopes of Prayer’s Eye Peak. The property belonged to an absentee lord, who was having the wood hauled north to build a stockade. The job paid well and looked as if it would last a long time, for the stockade was going to be a large one.

  Caramon worked full time for the prospering Farmer Sedge, who had extended his land holdings and was now shipping grain, fruits, and vegetables to the markets of Haven. Caramon worked long hours for a portion of the crops, some of which he sold, the rest he brought home.

  The Widow Judith was considered a member of the family. She maintained her own small house, but for all practical purposes, she lived at the Majeres’. Rosamun could not manage without her. Rosamun herself was much improved. She had not fallen into one of her trancelike states in several years. She and the widow performed the chores around the house and spent much of their time visiting the neighbors.

  Had Gilon known exactly what such visits entailed, he might have been worried about his wife. But he assumed Rosamun and the widow were doing nothing more than sharing the latest gossip. He could not know, nor would he have believed, the truth of the matter.

  Gilon and Caramon both liked the Widow Judith. Raistlin grew to dislike her more than ever, perhaps because during the summer he was home with her, whereas the other two were not. He saw the influence the widow wielded over his mother, and he disliked and distrusted it. More than once, he came in on their whispered conversations, conversations that would end abruptly upon his arrival.

  He tried to eavesdrop, hoping to hear what the two were saying. The Widow Judith had excellent hearing, however, and he was usually discovered. One day, however, the two women happened to be sitting at the kitchen table beneath a window where several pies were cooling. Walking up on them from outside, his footsteps lost among the rustling of the leaves of the vallenwood tree, Raistlin heard their voices. He halted in the shadows.

  “The High Priest is not pleased with you, Rosamun Majere. I have had a letter from him this day. He wonders why you have not brought your husband and children into the arms of Belzor.”

  Rosamun’s response was meek and defensive. She had tried. She had spoken to Gilon of Belzor several times, but her husband had only laughed at her. He did not need to have faith in any god. He had faith in himself and his good right arm and that was that. Caramon said he was quite willing to attend the meetings of the Belzorites, especially if they served food. As for Raistlin … Rosamun’s voice trailed off.

  As for Raistlin, he was eager to hear more, but at that moment the Widow Judith rose to see to the pies and saw him standing at the corner of the house. He and Judith looked intently at each other. Neither gave anything away to the other, however, except a shared enmity. The Widow Judith brought in the pies and closed the shutters. Raistlin continued on to his garden.

  Who in the Abyss is this Belzor, he wondered, and why does he want to embrace us?

  “It’s some sort of thing of mother’s,” said Caramon, upon questioning. “You know. One of those woman things. They all meet together and talk about stuff. What kind of stuff? I don’t know. I went once but I fell asleep.”

  Rosamun never said anything to Raistlin about Belzor, rather to Raistlin’s disappointment. He considered bringing up the matter himself, but he feared this would involve talking to the Widow Judith, and he avoided contact with her as much as possible. The master was off on his visit to the conclave. School was out for the summer. Raistlin spent his days planting, cultivating, and adding to his collection of herbs. He was gaining some small reputation among the neighbors for his knowledge of herbs, sold what he himself did not need and thus was able to contribute to the family’s income. He forgot about Belzor.

  The Majere family was happy and prosperous that summer, a summer that would stand out in the twins’ minds as golden, a gold that shone all the more brightly in contrast to the coming darkness.

  Raistlin and Caramon were walking along the road leading to Solace, returning from Farmer Sedge’s. Caramon was coming back from work. Raistlin had gone to the farmer’s to deliver a bundle of dried lavender. His clothes still smelled of the fragrant flower. From that time, he would never be able to abide the scent of lavender.

  As they neared Solace, a small boy sighted them, began waving his arms, and broke into a run. He came pounding along the dusty track to meet them.

  “Hullo, young Ned,” said Caramon, who knew every child in town. “I can’t play Goblin Ball with you right now, but maybe after dinner we—”

  “Hush, Caramon,” Raistlin ordered tersely. The child was wide-eyed and solemn as an owlet. “Can’t you see? Something’s wrong. What is it? What has happened?”

  “There’s been an accident,” the boy managed to gasp, out of breath. “Your … your father.”

  He might have said more, but he’d lost his audience. The twins were racing for home. Raistlin ran as fast as he could for a short distance, but not even fear and adrenaline could keep his frail body going for long. His strength gave out and he was forced to slow down. Caramon kept going but, after a few moments, realized he was alone. He paused to look behind for his brother. Raistlin waved his brother on ahead.

  Are you sure? Caramon’s worried look asked.

  I am sure, Raistlin’s look answered.

  Caramon nodded once, turned, and kept running. Raistlin made what haste he could, anxiety knotting his stomach and chilling him, causing him to shiver in the summer sunshine. Raistlin was surprised at his reaction. He had not supposed he cared this much for his father.

  They had driven Gilon in a wagon from Prayer’s Eye Peak back to Solace. Raistlin arrived to find his father still in the wagon with a crowd gathered around. At the news of the accident, almost everyone in town who could leave his work had come running, come to stare at the unfortunate man in mingled horror, concern, and curiosity.

  Rosamun stood at the side of the wagon, holding fast to her husband’s bloodstained hand and weeping. The Widow Judith was at her side.

  “Have faith in Belzor,” the widow was saying, “and he will be healed. Have faith.”

  “I do,” Rosamun was saying over and over through pale lips. “I do have faith. Oh, my poor husband. You will be well. I have faith.…”

  People standing nearby glanced at each other and shook their heads. Someone went to fetch the stable owner, who was supposed to know all about setting broken bones. Otik arrived from the inn, his chubby face drawn and grieved. He had brought along a jug of his finest brandy, his customary offering in any medical emergency.

  “Tie Gilon to a stretcher,” the Widow Judith said. “We’ll carry him up the stairs. He will mend better in his own home.”

  A dwarf, a fellow townsman whom Raistlin knew by sight, glowered at her. “Are you daft, woman! Jouncing him around like that will kill him!”

  “He shall not die!” said the Widow Judith loudly. “Belzor will save him!”

  The townspeople standing around exchanged glances. Some rolled their eyes, but others looked interested and attentive.

  “He better do it fast, then,” muttered the dwarf, standing on tiptoe to peer into the wagon. Beside him, a kender was jumping up and down, clamoring, “Let me see, Flint! Let me see!”

  Caramon had climbed into the wagon. Almost as pale as his father, Caramon crouched beside Gilon, anxious and helpless. At the sight of the terrible injuries—Gilon’s cracked rib bones protruded through his flesh, and one leg was little more than a sodden mass of blood and bone—a low, animal-like moan escaped C
aramon’s lips.

  Rosamun paid no attention to her stricken son. She stood at the side of the wagon, clutching Gilon’s hand and whispering frantically about having faith.

  “Raist!” Caramon cried in a hollow voice, looking around in panic.

  “I am here, my brother,” Raistlin said quietly. He climbed into the wagon beside Caramon.

  Caramon grasped hold of his twin’s hand thankfully, gave a shuddering sigh. “Raist! What can we do? We have to do something. Think of something to do, Raist!”

  “There’s nothing to do, son,” said the dwarf kindly. “Nothing except wish your father well on his next journey.”

  Raistlin examined the injured man and knew immediately that the dwarf was right. How Gilon had managed to live this long was a mystery.

  “Belzor is here!” the Widow Judith intoned shrilly. “Belzor will heal this man!”

  Belzor, Raistlin thought bitterly, is taking his own sweet time.

  “Father!” Caramon cried out.

  At the sound of his son’s voice, Gilon shifted his eyes—he could not move his head—and searched for his sons.

  His gaze found them, rested on them. “Take care … your mother,” he managed to whisper. A froth of blood coated his lips.

  Caramon sobbed and covered his face with his hand.

  “We will, Father,” Raistlin promised.

  Gilon’s gaze encompassed both his sons. He managed a fleeting smile, then looked over at Rosamun. He started to say something, but a tremor of pain shook him. He closed his eyes in agony, gave a great groan, and lay still.

  The dwarf removed his hat, held it to his chest. “Reorx walk with him,” he said softly.

  “The poor man’s dead. Oh, how sad!” said the kender, and a tear trickled down his cheek.

  It was the first time death had come so close to Raistlin. He felt it as a physical presence, passing among them, dark wings spreading over them. He felt small and insignificant, naked and vulnerable.

  So sudden. An hour ago Gilon had walked among the trees, thinking of nothing more important than what he might enjoy for dinner that night.

  So dark. Endless darkness, eternal. It was not the absence of light that was as frightening as the absence of thought, of knowledge, of comprehension. Our lives, the lives of the living, will go on. The sun shines, the moons rise, we will laugh and talk, and he will know nothing, feel nothing. Nothing.

  So final. It will come to us all. It will come to me.

  Raistlin thought he should be grieved or sorrowful for his father, but all he felt was sorrow for himself, grief for his own mortality. He turned away from the broken corpse, only to find his mother still clinging to the lifeless hand, stroking the cooling flesh, urging Gilon to speak to her.

  “Caramon, we have to see to Mother,” Raistlin said urgently. “We must take her home.”

  But on turning, he found that Caramon was in need of assistance himself. He had collapsed near the body of his father. Painful, choking sobs wrenched him. Raistlin rested his hand comfortingly on Caramon’s arm.

  Caramon’s big hand closed convulsively around his twin’s. Raistlin could not free himself, nor did he want to. He found comfort in his brother’s touch. But he didn’t like the fey look on his mother’s face.

  “Come, Mother. Let the Widow Judith take you home.”

  “No, no!” cried Rosamun frantically. “I must not leave your father. He needs me.”

  “Mother,” Raistlin said, now starting to be frightened. “Father is dead. There is nothing more—”

  “Dead!” Rosamun looked bewildered. “Dead! No! He can’t be! I have faith.”

  Rosamun flung herself on her husband. Her hands grasped his blood-soaked shirt. “Gilon! Wake up!”

  Gilon’s head lolled. A trickle of blood flowed from his mouth.

  “I have faith,” Rosamun repeated with a heartbroken whimper. Her hands were bloody, she clung to the blood-soaked shirt.

  “Mother, please, go home!” Raistlin pleaded helplessly.

  Otik took hold of Rosamun’s hands and gently freed her grip. Another neighbor hurriedly covered the body with a blanket.

  “So much for Belzor,” said the dwarf in a grating undertone.

  He had not meant his words to be overheard, but his voice was deep and had a good carrying quality to it. Everyone standing around heard him. A few looked shocked. Several shook their heads. One or two smiled grimly when they thought no one was watching.

  The Widow Judith had done a good deal of proselytizing since her arrival in town, and she’d gained more than a few converts to her new faith. Some of those converts were regarding the dead man with dismay.

  “Who’s Belzor?” the kender asked eagerly in shrill tones. “Flint, do you know Belzor? Was he supposed to heal this poor man? Why didn’t he, do you suppose?”

  “Hush your mouth, Tas, you doorknob!” the dwarf said in a harsh whisper.

  But this was a question many of the faithful newcomers were asking themselves. They looked to the Widow Judith for an answer.

  The Widow Judith had not lost her faith. Her face hardened. She glared at the dwarf, glared even more fiercely at the kender, who was now lifting the corner of the blanket for a curious peep at the corpse.

  “Perhaps he’s been healed and we just haven’t noticed,” the kender offered helpfully.

  “He has not been healed!” The Widow Judith cried out in dolorous tones. “Gilon Majere has not been healed, nor will he be healed. Why not, do you ask? Because of the sinfulness of this woman!” The Widow Judith pointed at Rosamun. “Her daughter is a whore! Her son is a witch! It is her fault and the fault of her children that Gilon Majere died!”

  The pointing finger might have been a spear ripping through Rosamun’s body. She stared at Judith in shock, then screamed and sank to her knees, moaning.

  Raistlin was on his feet, climbing over the body of his father. “How dare you?” he said softly, menacingly to the widow. Reaching the side of the wagon, he vaulted out. “Get out of here!” He came face-to-face with the widow. “Leave us alone!”

  “You see!” The Widow Judith backed up precipitously. The pointing finger shifted to Raistlin. “He is evil! He does the bidding of evil gods!”

  A fire blazed up within Raistlin, blazed up white hot, consumed sense, consumed reason. He could see nothing in the glare of the blaze. He didn’t care if the fire destroyed him, just so long as it destroyed Judith.

  “Raist!” A hand grabbed him. A hand, strong and firm, reached into the midst of the blaze and grasped hold of him. “Raist! Stop!”

  The hand, his brother’s hand, dragged Raistlin out of the fire. The terrible white-hot glare that had blinded him died, the fire died, leaving him cold and shivering, with a taste of ashes in his mouth. Caramon’s strong arms wrapped around Raistlin’s thin shoulders.

  “Don’t harm her, Raist,” Caramon was saying. His voice came out a croak, his throat was raw from weeping. “Don’t prove her right!”

  The widow, white-faced and blenching, had backed up against a tree. She glanced about at her neighbors. “You saw, good people of Solace! He tried to kill me. He’s a fiend in human clothing, I tell you! Send this mother and her demon spawn away! Cast them out of Solace! Show Belzor that you will not tolerate such evil!”

  The crowd was silent, their faces dark and impassive. Moving slowly, they came together to form a circle—a protective circle with the Majere family in the center. Rosamun crouched on the ground, her head bowed. Raistlin and Caramon stood close together, near their mother. Although Kitiara was not there—she had not been with the family in years—her spirit had been invoked, and she was also present, if only in the minds of her siblings. Gilon lay dead in the wagon, his body covered by a blanket. His blood was starting to seep through the wool. The Widow Judith stood outside the circle, and still no one spoke.

  A man shoved his way through from the back of the crowd. Raistlin had only an indistinct impression of him; the still-smoldering fire within clouded h
is vision. But he would remember him as tall, clean-shaven, with long hair that covered his ears, fell to his shoulders. He was clad in leather, trimmed with fringe, and wore a bow over one shoulder.

  He walked up to the widow.

  “I think you are the one who had better leave Solace,” he said. His voice was quiet, he wasn’t threatening her, merely stating a fact.

  The widow scowled at him and flashed a glance around at the people in the crowd behind him. “Are you going to let this half-breed talk to me like this?” she demanded.

  “Tanis is right,” said Otik, waddling forward to lend his support. He waved a pudgy hand, in which he still held his brandy jug. “You just go along back to Haven, my good woman. And take Belzor with you. He’s not needed around here. We care for our own.”

  “Take your mother home, lads,” said the dwarf. “Don’t fret about your pa. We’ll see to the burial. You’ll want to be there, of course. We’ll let you know when it’s time.”

  Raistlin nodded, unable to speak. He bent down, grasped hold of his mother. She was limp in his hands, limp and shredded, like a rag doll that has been worried and torn by savage dogs. She gazed about her with a vacuous expression that Raistlin remembered well; his heart shriveled within him.

  “Mother,” he said in a choked voice. “We’re going to go home now.”

  Rosamun did not respond. She did not seem to have heard him. She sagged, dead weight, in his arms.

  “Caramon?” Raistlin looked to his brother.

  Caramon nodded, his eyes filled with tears.

  Between them, they carried their mother home.

  3

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, GILON MAJERE WAS BURIED BENEATH the vallenwoods, a seedling planted on his grave as was customary among the inhabitants of Solace. His sons came to the ceremony. His wife did not.

  “She’s sleeping,” said Caramon with a blush for his lie. “We didn’t want to wake her.”

  The truth was, they couldn’t wake her.