The Soulforge

by Margaret Weis

  “I found the boat—” Tasslehoff began.

  “Caramon, the big lummox, stood up in it—”

  “I was only trying to catch a fish, Flint—”

  “Upset the whole blasted boat. Gave us all a good soaking—”

  “Caramon sank like a stone. I know, because I threw a whole lot of stones in the water, and they all went down just like Caramon, without even a bubble—”

  “I was worried about Raist—”

  “I was quite capable of taking care of myself, my brother. There was an air pocket underneath the overturned boat, and I was in no danger whatsoever, except of having an imbecile for a brother. Trying to catch a fish with your bare hands—”

  “—jumped in after Caramon. I pulled him out of the water—”

  “You did not, Flint! Caramon pulled himself out of the water. I pulled you out of the water. Don’t you remember? You see what trouble you get into without me—”

  “I do remember, and that wasn’t the way it was at all, you dratted kender, and I’ll tell you one thing,” Flint stated emphatically, bringing the confused tale to a close. “I’m never setting foot in a boat again so long as I live. That was the first time, and it will be the last, so help me, Reorx.”

  “I trust Reorx will honor that vow,” said Tanis. He clapped the dwarf affectionately on the shoulder and rose to leave. “I’m going to go see if my house is still standing. You want to come along?”

  Tanis asked the question of Flint, but his eyes went to Kitiara.

  “I’ll go!” Tas signed on eagerly.

  “No, you won’t,” Flint said, collaring the kender and hauling him backward.

  “You’re coming home with us, aren’t you, Kit?” Caramon asked teasingly.

  “Maybe later,” said Kitiara. Reaching out, she took hold of Tanis’s hand. “Much later.”

  “Oh, shut up,” Raistlin said crossly when Caramon wanted to talk about it.

  4

  SPRING CAME TO SOLACE, BRINGING WITH IT BUDDING FLOWERS, baby lambs, nesting birds. Blood that had grown cold and sluggish in the winter warmed and thinned. Young men panted and girls giggled. Of all the seasons of the year, Raistlin detested springtime most.

  “Kit didn’t come home again last night,” Caramon said with a wink over breakfast.

  Raistlin ate bread and cheese, made no comment. He had no intention of encouraging this line of discussion.

  Caramon needed no encouragement, however. “Her bed wasn’t slept in. I’ll bet I know whose bed was slept in, though. Not that they probably did much sleeping.”

  “Caramon,” said Raistlin coldly, rising to his feet, leaving his breakfast mostly untouched. “You are a pig.”

  He carried the scraps of his meal to the two field mice he had captured and now kept in a cage, along with the tame rabbit. He had developed certain theories concerning the use of his herbs, and it seemed wiser to test out these theories on animals rather than his patients. Mice were easy to catch and cheap to maintain.

  Raistlin’s first experiment had not worked out, having fallen victim to the neighbor’s cat. He had chastised Caramon quite severely for permitting the cat to enter the house. Caramon, who was fond of cats, promised to entertain the animal out-of-doors from then on. The mice were safe, and Raistlin was quite pleased with the results of his latest experiment. He poked the crumbs through the bars.

  “It is bad enough our sister whoring herself, without you making dirty remarks about it,” Raistlin continued, giving the rabbit fresh water.

  “Aw, c’mon, Raist!” Caramon protested. “Kit isn’t … what you said. She’s in love with the guy. You can see that from the way she looks at him. And he’s crazy about her. I like Tanis. Flint’s told me a lot about him. Flint says that this summer Tanis’ll teach me to use my sword and the bow and arrow. Flint says Tanis is the greatest archer who ever lived. Flint says—”

  Raistlin ignored the rest of the conversation. Brushing the crumbs from his hands, he gathered up his books. “I must leave now,” he said, rudely cutting his brother off in midsentence. “I am late for school. I will see you this evening, I suppose? Or perhaps you are going to move in with Tanis Half-Elven?”

  “Well, no, Raist. Why should I move in with him?”

  Sarcasm was lost on Caramon.

  “You know, Raist, being with a girl is lots of fun,” Caramon continued. “You never talk to any of them, and there’s more than one who thinks you’re pretty special. Because of the magic and so forth. And how you cured the Greenleaf baby of croup. They say that baby would have died if you hadn’t helped her, Raist. Girls like that sort of thing.”

  Raistlin paused in the doorway. his cheeks faintly burning with pleasure. “It was only a mixture of tea and a root I read about called ipecacuanha. The baby had to throw up the phlegm, you see, and the root mixture caused the child to vomit. Do girls … do they truly talk about … about such things?”

  Girls were, to Raistlin’s mind, strange creatures, as unreadable as a magic spell from the tome of some high-ranking archmagus, and just as unattainable. Yet Caramon, who in some matters was as dense as a fallen log, talked to girls, danced the round dances popular at festivals with them, did other things with them, things that Raistlin dreamed about in the dark hours of the night, dreams that left him feeling ashamed and unclean. But then Caramon, with his brawny build, his curly hair, his big brown eyes and handsome features, was attractive to women. Raistlin was not.

  The frequent illnesses that still afflicted him left him thin and bony. with no appetite for food. He had the same well-formed nose and chin as Caramon, but on Raistlin the features were more finely planed and pointed, giving him the sly, crafty appearance of a fox. He disliked round dancing, considered it a waste of time and energy, besides which it left him breathless, with a pain in his chest. He didn’t know how to talk to girls, what to say. He had the feeling that, although they listened to him politely enough, behind those sparkling eyes, they were secretly laughing at him.

  “I don’t think they talk about ipe—ipe—ipecaca—whatever that long-tailed word was,” Caramon admitted. “But one of them, Miranda, said it was wonderful the way you saved that baby’s life. It was her little niece, you see. She wanted me to tell you.”

  “Did she?” Raistlin murmured.

  “Yeah. Miranda’s wonderful, isn’t she?” Caramon gave a gusty sigh. “I’ve never seen anyone so beautiful. Oops”—he glanced outdoors, to see the sun starting to rise—“I’ve got to get going myself. We’re planting today. I won’t be home until after dark.”

  Whistling a merry tune, Caramon grabbed his pack and hastened off.

  “Yes, my brother, you are right. She is very beautiful!” Raistlin said to the empty house.

  Miranda was the daughter of a wealthy clothier, recently arrived to set up business in Solace. Her father’s best advertisement, Miranda dressed in the finest clothes, cut and sewn in the very latest style. Long strawberry blond hair fell in lazy ringlets to her waist. Graceful and demure, fragile and winsome, innocent and good, she was utterly captivating, and Raistlin was not the only young man to admire her immensely.

  Raistlin had sometimes fancied that Miranda would occasionally glance his way and that her look was inviting. But he always told himself that this was just wishful thinking. How could she possibly care about him? Whenever he saw her, his heart raced, nearly suffocating him. His blood burned, his skin grew cold and clammy. His tongue, normally so glib, could speak only inanities, his brain turned to oatmeal. He could not even look her in the face. Whenever he came close to her, he had difficulty keeping his hand from reaching out to caress one of those flame-colored curls.

  There was another factor. Would I be as interested in this young woman if she had not won Caramon’s admiration as well? Raistlin asked himself.

  The top of Raistlin’s mind answered immediately “Yes!” The depths pondered the question uneasily. What demon in Raistlin led to this constant competition with his own twin? A one-sided compet
ition, at that, for Caramon was serenely unaware of it.

  Raistlin recalled a story Tasslehoff had told them about a dwarf coming upon a slumbering red dragon. The dwarf attacked the sleeping dragon with ax and sword, hammered at it for hours until he was exhausted. The dragon never even woke up. Yawning, the dragon rolled over in its sleep and squashed the dwarf flat.

  Raistlin empathized with that dwarf. He felt as if he were constantly battling his twin, only to have Caramon roll over on him and crush him. Caramon was the better-looking, the better liked, the better trusted. Raistlin was “deep,” as Kit described him, or “subtle,” as Tanis had once said of him, or “sly,” as his classmates termed him. Most people tolerated his presence only because they liked his brother.

  At least I am gaining some small reputation as a healer, Raistlin thought as he walked along the boardwalk, trying to avoid breathing in the fragrant spring air, which always made him sneeze.

  But the glow of satisfaction no sooner was kindled in him, giving him some small share of warmth, when that infernal demon of his whispered bitterly, Yes, and perhaps that is all you will ever be—a minor mage, a weed-chopping healer—while your warrior brother does great deeds, wins great reward, and covers himself in glory.

  “Oh, dear! Oh, my goodness!”

  Startled, Raistlin came up short, with the realization that he’d just bumped into someone. He had been concentrating on his thoughts, hurrying along so that he wouldn’t be late, and not watching where he was going.

  Lifting his head, about to mutter some apology and push his way past, he saw Miranda.

  “Oh, dear,” she said again and peered over the edge of the railing. Several bolts of fabric lay scattered on the ground beneath them.

  “I’m so terribly sorry!” Raistlin gasped. He must have plowed straight into her, causing her to drop the bolts of cloth. They had fallen off the boardwalk, tumbled in a spiral of bright color to the ground.

  That was his first thought. His second—and one that caused him even more confusion—was that the boardwalk was wide enough for four people to walk on it abreast and there were only two of them on it at present. One of them, at least, must have been watching where she was going.

  “Wait … wait here,” Raistlin stammered. “I’ll … I’ll go pick them up.”

  “No, no, it was my fault,” the girl returned. Her green eyes glowed like the new budding leaves of the trees that spread their limbs over them. “I was watching a pair of nesting sparrows.…” She blushed, which made her even prettier. “I wasn’t looking.…”

  “I insist,” Raistlin said firmly.

  “We’ll go together, shall we?” Miranda forestalled him. “It’s a lot to carry, for just one.”

  She shyly slid her hand into his.

  Her touch sent flame through him, flame similar to that of his magic, only hotter. This flame consumed, the other refined.

  The two walked side by side down the long stairs to the ground below. The area was still in shadow, the early morning sun was only just filtering through the shiny new leaves. Miranda and Raistlin gathered up the bolts of cloth slowly, taking their time. Raistlin said he hoped the dew would not harm the fabric. Miranda said that there had been no dew at all that morning, nothing to speak of, and that a good brushing would set them right.

  He helped her fold up the long lengths of cloth, taking one end while she took the other. Every time they came together, their hands touched.

  “I wanted to thank you personally,” Miranda said, looking up at him during one of these moments as they stood there, the cloth held between them. Her eyes, glimmering through a veil of reddish blond eyelashes, were entrancing. “You saved my sister’s baby. We’re all so very grateful.”

  “It was nothing,” Raistlin protested. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded! The baby is everything, of course. What I meant was that what I did was nothing. Well, not that either. What I meant was—”

  “I know what you meant,” said Miranda and closed both of her hands over his. They dropped the cloth. She lifted her lips, closed her eyes. He bent over her. “Miranda! There you are! Stop dawdling, girl, and bring along that cloth. I need it for Mistress Wells’s bodice.”

  “Yes, Mother.” Miranda stooped, hastily gathered up the cloth in a bundle, not bothering to fold it. Holding the fabric in her arms, she whispered softly and breathlessly, “You will come to visit me some evening, won’t you, Raistlin?”

  “Miranda!”

  “Coming, Mother!”

  Miranda was gone, departing in a flutter of skirts and trailing fabric.

  Raistlin remained standing where she’d left him, as if he’d been struck by lightning and his feet had melted to the spot. Dazed and dazzled, he considered her invitation and what it meant. She liked him. Him! She had chosen him over Caramon, over all the other men in town who were vying for her affection.

  Happiness, pure and untainted, happiness such as he had rarely experienced, poured over him. He basked in it, as in a hot summer sun, and felt himself grow like the newly planted seeds. He built castles in the air so rapidly that within seconds they were ready for him to take up residence.

  He saw himself her acknowledged favorite. Caramon would envy him for a change. Not that what Caramon thought mattered, because Miranda loved him, and she was everything good and sweet and wonderful. She would bring out what was good in Raistlin, drive away those perverse demons—jealousy, ambition, pride—who were always plaguing him. He and Miranda would live above the clothier shop. He didn’t know anything at all about running a business, but he would learn, for her sake.

  For her sake, he would even give up his magic, if she asked him.

  The laughter of children jolted Raistlin from his sweet reverie. He was now very late for school and would receive a severe scolding from Master Theobald.

  A scolding which Raistlin accepted so meekly, gazing at Theobald with what might almost be termed an affectionate smile, that the master was more than half convinced his strangest and most difficult pupil had, at long last, gone quite mad.

  That night—for the first time since he had started school, not counting those times when he was ill—Raistlin did not study his spellcasting. He forgot to water his herbs, left the mice and the rabbit to scrabble frantically in their cages, hungry for the food he neglected to give them. He tried to eat but couldn’t swallow a mouthful. He dined on love, a dish far sweeter and more succulent than any served at the feast of an emperor.

  Raistlin’s one fear was that his brother would return before nightfall, for then he would have to waste time answering all sorts of stupid questions. Raistlin had his lie prepared, a lie brought to mind by Miranda herself. He had been called out to tend to a sick child. No, he did not need Caramon as an escort.

  Fortunately Caramon did not return home. This was not unusual during planting season, when he and Farmer Sedge would stay out working in the fields by the light of the bright moon.

  Raistlin left their house, walking the boardwalks. In his fancy, he walked on moonlit clouds.

  He went to Miranda’s house, but he was not going to visit her. Visiting a young unmarried woman after dark would not have been proper. He would speak to her father first, obtain his permission to court his daughter. Raistlin went only to gaze at the place where she lived, hoping perhaps to catch a glimpse of her through the window. He imagined her sitting before the fire, bent over her evening’s sewing. She was dreaming of him, perhaps, as he was dreaming of her.

  The clothier’s business was on the lower level of his house, one of the largest in Solace. The lower level was dark, for the business was shut up for the night. Lights gleamed in the upper level, though, shining through gabled windows. Raistlin stood quietly on the boardwalk in the soft spring evening gazing up at the windows, waiting, hoping for nothing more than the sight of the light shining on her red-gold curls. He was standing thus when he heard a noise.

  The sound came from down below, from a shed on the ground beneath the cloth
ier’s. Probably a storage shed. The thought came immediately to Raistlin’s mind that some thief had broken into the shed. If he could catch the thief, or at least halt the robbery, he would, in his fevered, impossibly romantic condition, have a chance to prove himself worthy of Miranda’s love.

  Not stopping to think that what he was doing was extremely dangerous, that he had no means of protecting himself if he did come upon a thief, Raistlin ran down the stairs. He could see his way easily enough. Lunitari, the red moon, was full this night and cast a lurid glow along his path.

  Reaching the ground, he glided forward silently, stealthily toward the shed. The lock on the door hung loose, the door was shut. The shed had no windows, but a soft light, just barely visible, gleamed out of a knothole on one side. Someone was definitely inside. Raistlin had been about to burst in the door, but common sense prevailed, even over love. He first would look through the knothole, see what was going on. He would be witness to the thief’s activities. This done, he would raise the alarm, prevent the thief’s escape.

  Raistlin put his eye to the knothole.

  Bundles of cloth had been stacked on one side of the shed, leaving a cleared place in the center. A blanket was spread on that cleared place. A candle stood on a box in a corner. On the blanket, indistinct in the shadows cast by the candle’s wavering flame, two people writhed and panted and squirmed.

  They rolled into the candle’s light. Red curls fell across a bare white breast. A man’s hand squeezed the breast and groaned. Miranda giggled and gasped. Her white hand raked across the man’s naked back.

  A broad, muscular back. Brown hair, brown curly hair, shone in the candlelight. Caramon’s naked back, Caramon’s sweat-damp hair.

  Caramon nuzzled Miranda’s neck and straddled her. The two rolled out of the light. Pants and heaves and smothered giggles whispered in the darkness, giggles that dissolved into moans and gasps of pleasure.

  Raistlin thrust his hands into the sleeves of his robe. Shivering uncontrollably in the warm spring air, he walked silently and rapidly back to the stairs that were blood red in Lunitari’s smugly smiling light.