The Soulforge

by Margaret Weis

  Would his friends back him up? Would Tanis, who was nominally their leader, permit Raistlin to even try his scheme?

  “Yes, if I approach them the right way.”

  He found the others gathered around a campfire they had built in back of Flint’s stall.

  Tanis and Kit sat side by side. Evidently the half-elf had not yet discovered Kit’s deception. Caramon sat on a log, his head in his hands. Flint had returned from the tavern a bit tipsy, having fallen in with some hill dwarves from the Kharolis Mountains, who, though not of his clan, had traveled near his old homeland and were happy to share gossip and ale. Tasslehoff squatted by the campfire, roasting chestnuts in a skillet.

  “You’re back,” said Kit as Raistlin appeared. “We were getting worried. I was just about to send Tanis to find you. He’s already been out rescuing the kender.”

  Kit winked when Tanis wasn’t looking. Raistlin understood. Caramon did, too, apparently. Lifting his head, his brow puckered, he looked at his twin, sighed, and lowered his head to his hands again.

  “My head aches,” he mumbled.

  Tanis explained that he had found Tasslehoff, along with twenty other kender, incarcerated in the Haven jail. Tanis paid the fine levied on those who “knowingly and willingly associate with kender,” extricated Tas from prison, and brought him forcibly back to the fairgrounds. Tanis trusted that tomorrow the distractions of the fair would keep the kender occupied and out of the town proper.

  Tasslehoff was sorry to have missed the evening’s adventure, especially the giant snake and the intoxicating smoke. The Haven jail had been a disappointment.

  “It was dirty, Raistlin, and it had rats! Can you believe it? Rats! For rats I missed a giant snake and intoxicating smoke. Life is so unfair!”

  Tas could never stay unhappy for long, however. Upon reflecting that he couldn’t possibly be two places at the same time (except Uncle Trapspringer, who had done it once), the kender cheered up. Forgetting the chestnuts (which soon burned past eating), Tas sorted through all his newfound possessions, then, worn out by the day’s excitement, he fell asleep, his head pillowed on one of his own pouches.

  Flint shook his head at the story of Belzor. He stroked his long beard and said it didn’t surprise him in the least. He expected nothing better of humans, present company excepted.

  Kit considered it a fine joke.

  “You should have seen Caramon,” she told them, laughing. “Staggering about like a great drunken bear.”

  Caramon groaned and rose unsteadily to his feet. Mumbling something about feeling sick, he staggered off in the direction of the men’s privies.

  Sturm frowned. He did not approve of Kit’s levity on serious subjects. “I do not like these followers of Belzor, but you must admit that we did see a miracle performed in that arena. What other explanation can there be, except that Belzor is a god and his priests have miraculous powers?”

  “I’ll give you an explanation,” Raistlin said. “Magic.”

  “Magic?”

  Kit laughed again. Sturm was disapproving. Flint said, “I knew it,” though no one could figure out how.

  “Are you certain, Raistlin?” Tanis asked.

  “I am,” Raistlin answered. “I am familiar with the spell she cast.”

  Tanis appeared dubious. “Forgive me, Raistlin. I’m not casting doubt on your knowledge, but you are only a novice.”

  “And as such I am fit for nothing except washing out my master’s chamber pot. Is that what you are saying, Tanis?”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  Raistlin dismissed the apology with an irritated wave of his hand. “I know what you meant. And what you think of me or my abilities makes no difference to me. I have further evidence that what I say is true, but it is obvious that Tanis does not care to hear it.”

  “I want to hear it,” said Caramon stoutly. He had returned from his short jaunt, seemed to be feeling better.

  “Tell us,” said Kit, her dark eyes glinting in the firelight.

  “Yes, lad, let us hear your evidence,” said Flint. “Mind you, I knew it was magic all along.”

  “Bring me a blanket, my brother,” Raistlin ordered. “I will catch my death, sitting on this damp ground.” When he was comfortable, seated on a blanket near the fire and sipping at a glass of mulled cider, which Kit brought him, he explained his reasoning.

  “My first indication that something might be wrong was when I heard that the priests were forbidding users of magic to enter the temple. Not only that, but they are actively persecuting the one wizard who lives in Haven, a Red Robe named Lemuel. Caramon and I met him this afternoon. The priests forced him to close his mageware shop. They have frightened him into fleeing his home, the house where he was born. In addition to this, the priests have prohibited all mages from entering their temple when the ‘miracle’ is performed. Why? Because any magic-user, even a novice such as myself,” Raistlin added in acid tones, “would recognize the spell Judith casts.”

  “Why did they force that friend of yours, that Lemuel, to close down his mageware shop?” Caramon asked. “How could a shop hurt them?”

  “Shutting down Lemuel’s mageware shop insures that the wizards who frequented that shop—wizards who might expose Judith—will no longer have a reason to come to Haven. When Lemuel leaves town, the priests will consider themselves safe.”

  “But then why did that priest invite you to the temple, little brother?” Kit asked.

  “In order to make certain I would not be a nuisance,” Raistlin replied. “Remember, he said that I would not be allowed inside to witness the ‘miracle.’ Undoubtedly, had I gone, they would have urged me to renounce magic and embrace Belzor.”

  “I’d like to embrace him,” Caramon growled, flexing his big hands. “I’ve got the worst hangover I’ve ever had in my life, and I never touched a drop. Life’s not fair, as the kender says.”

  “But those people who spoke to Belzor.” Sturm was arguing in favor of the miracle. “How did the Widow Judith know all those things about them? A husband’s pet name for his wife, where that farmer hid his money?”

  “Remember, those people who appeared before Belzor were handpicked,” Raistlin replied. “Judith probably interviewed them in advance. Through skillful questioning, she could elicit information from them, information about their husbands and family, information they don’t realize they are providing. As for the farmer and the hidden money, they did not tell him publicly where to find it. When he comes to the temple, they’ll tell him to search under the mattress. If that fails, they’ll tell him he lacked faith in Belzor, and if he contributes more money, they’ll offer him another place to search.”

  “There’s something I don’t understand,” said Flint, thinking things over. “If this widow woman is a wizardess, why did she attach herself to your mother, then denounce her at your father’s funeral?”

  “That puzzled me, too, at first,” Raistlin admitted. “But then it made sense. Judith was trying to introduce the worship of Belzor into Solace. Her first act when she arrived in town would be to seek out any magi who might prove to be a threat. My mother, who had some reputation as a seer, was an obvious choice. All the while Judith lived in Solace, she endeavored to build up her following. She was not performing any ‘miracles’ then. Perhaps she had not yet mastered the technique, or perhaps she was waiting until she had a suitable location and audience. Before she could proceed, however, you and Tanis thwarted her plan. Judith realized at my father’s funeral that the people of Solace were not likely to fall in with her schemes.

  “As we saw tonight, Judith and the High Priest of Belzor, who is probably her partner in this scheme, feed on people’s worst qualities: fear, prejudice, and greed. The residents of Solace tend to be less fearful of strangers, more accepting of others simply because the town is a crossroads.”

  “It is an ugly game that widow woman’s playing, bilking people out of what little they have,” Flint stated grimly. He looked quite fierce, his bro
ws bristled. “Not to mention tormenting that poor lass who lost her babe.”

  “It is an ugly game,” Raistlin concurred. “And one I believe that we can end.”

  “I’m in,” said Kit immediately.

  “Me, too,” Caramon said promptly, but that was a foregone conclusion. If his twin had proposed setting off on an expedition to find the Graygem of Gargath, Caramon would have started packing.

  “If these ‘miracles’ are in reality nothing more than the deceitful tricks of a mage, then it is my duty to expose her,” Sturm said.

  Raistlin smiled grimly, and bit back a sharp retort. He had need of the erstwhile knight.

  “I wouldn’t mind giving that widow a black eye,” said Flint reflectively. “What do you say, Tanis?”

  “I want to hear Raistlin’s plan first,” Tanis stated with his customary caution. “Attacking people’s faith is dangerous, more dangerous than attacking them physically.”

  “Count me in,” said Tasslehoff, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. “What are we doing?”

  “Whatever it is, we don’t need a kender,” Flint said grumpily. “Go to sleep. Or, better yet, why don’t you go back and tell ’em how to run their jail.”

  “Oh, I already did that,” Tas said, sensing the excitement and waking up quickly. “They were extremely rude, even when I offered my most helpful suggestions. Can I come, too, Raistlin? Please? Where are we going?”

  “No kender,” said Flint emphatically.

  “The kender may come,” Raistlin said. “As a matter of fact, Tasslehoff is the key to my plans.”

  “There! You see, Flint!” Tas jumped to his feet, tapped himself proudly on the chest. “Me! I’m the key to the plan!”

  “Reorx help us!” Flint groaned.

  “I hope he will,” Raistlin replied gravely.

  14

  RAISTLIN WAS UP EARLY THE NEXT DAY; HE HAD BEEN AWAKE MUCH of the night, finally falling into an uneasy sleep in the early hours of the morning. He woke from a dream he could not recall, but which left a feeling of disquiet in his mind. He had the impression he’d been dreaming about his mother,

  Flint and Tanis were up early as well, arranging and rearranging the wares to best advantage. They had placed the bracers, with their beautiful engravings of griffins, dragons, and other mythical beasts, on a front shelf. Necklaces of silver braid, fine and delicate work, were laid out on red velvet. Silver and gold lover’s rings, made to resemble clinging ivy, gleamed in wooden cases.

  Flint was not happy with the way the wares were displayed, however. He was certain that the morning sun would cast a shadow over the stall, and that therefore the silver must go here, not there, Tanis listened patiently, reminded Flint that they’d been through this yesterday, and due to the shadow of an overhanging oak, the sun rays would fall on the silver and set the jewels sparkling only if it remained where it was.

  They were still arguing when Raistlin went to the men’s privies to perform his ablutions, splashing cold water from a communal bucket over his face and body. Shivering, he dressed quickly in his white robes. Caramon remained asleep inside their tent, snoring off the effects of the opiated smoke.

  The air was chill and crisp, the sun was reddening the mountain peaks, already white from a smattering of snow. No clouds marred the sky. The day would warm pleasantly; the crowds at the fair would be brisk.

  Flint called out for Raistlin to come settle the argument on the placement of the jewelry. Raistlin, who cared nothing about the matter and would have just as soon seen the jewelry on the roof as anyplace else, managed to escape by pretending he hadn’t heard the dwarf’s bellow.

  He made his way through the fairgrounds, watched the activity with interest. Shutters were coming down, handcarts were being wheeled to the proper locations. The smells of bacon and fresh bread filled the air. The grounds were quiet, compared to the noise and confusion expected later in the day. Vendors called out to wish each other luck, or gathered together to share food and stories, or bartered for each other’s work.

  The vendors had only been here a day, and already they had formed their own community, complete with leaders, gossip, and scandals, bound together by the feeling of camaraderie, an “us against them” mentality. “Them” meant the customers, who were spoken of in the most disparaging terms and who would later be met with gracious smiles and servile attitudes.

  Raistlin viewed this little world with amused cynicism until he came to the booth of one of the bakers. A young woman was arranging fresh, hot muffins in a basket. Their spicy cinnamon smell made a pleasant accompaniment to the smell of wood smoke from the brick ovens and tempted Raistlin to walk over and ask the price. He was fumbling for his few remaining pennies, wondering if he had enough, when the young woman smiled at him and shook her head.

  “Put your money away, sir. You’re one of us.”

  The muffin warmed his hands as he walked; the taste of apples and cinnamon burst on his tongue. It was undoubtedly the best muffin he had ever eaten, and he decided that being part of the small community was very pleasant, even if it all was a bit odd.

  The streets of Haven were beginning to waken. Small children came bursting out of doors, squealing with excitement that they were going to go to the fair. Their harassed mothers darted out to retrieve them and wash their grimy faces. The town guard walked about with an important air, mindful of strangers visiting Haven and determined to impress.

  Raistlin kept a watch out for any of the blue-robed priests of Belzor. When he saw some in the distance, he ducked hastily into the next block to avoid them. It was unlikely that any would have recognized him as the shabbily clad peasant from the night before, but he dared not take the chance. He had considered putting on the same disguise today, but reflected that he would have to explain the reason for the disguise to Lemuel, something he did not want to do if it could be avoided. The meek little man would most certainly try to dissuade Raistlin from going through with his plan. Raistlin did not feel equal to hearing any more arguments. He’d heard them all already from himself.

  The sun’s rays were melting the frost on the leaves in the street when Raistlin reached Lemuel’s house. The house was quiet, and though this was not unusual for the reclusive mage, Raistlin realized uneasily that it was still very early in the morning. Lemuel might still be asleep.

  Raistlin prowled about outside the house for several moments, not liking to wake the mage, but not liking the idea of leaving, of wasting all this time and energy. He walked around to the back of the house, hoping he could see inside one of the near windows. He was pleased and relieved to hear noises coming from the garden.

  Finding a protruding brick in the lower portion of the garden wall, Raistlin set his foot upon it and hoisted himself up.

  “Excuse me, sir. Lemuel,” he called out softly, trying not to startle the nervous man.

  He failed. Lemuel dropped his trowel and stared about him in consternation. “Who … who said that?” he demanded in a quavering voice.

  “It’s me, sir … Raistlin.” He was conscious of his undignified position, clinging precariously to the wall, holding on with both hands.

  After a moment’s search, Lemuel saw his guest and greeted Raistlin most cordially, greetings which were cut short by Raistlin’s foot slipping from the brick, causing him to disappear from the mage’s sight with a startling abruptness. Lemuel opened the garden gate and invited Raistlin to enter, asking him anxiously as he did so if he’d seen any snakes near the house.

  “No, sir,” Raistlin answered, smiling. He had grown to like the nervous, fussy little man. Part of his motivation for proceeding with his plan—the unselfish part of his motives—was the determination that Lemuel should stay with his beloved garden. “The priests are down at the fairgrounds, finding new converts. So long as the fair runs, I do not think they will bother you, sir.”

  “We should be grateful for small blessings, as the gnome said when he blew off his hand when it might have been his head. Have you had breakf
ast? Do you mind very much if we take our food into the garden? I have a great deal of work to do there.”

  Raistlin indicated that he had already eaten and that he would be perfectly happy to go into the garden. He found the plots about a fourth of the way dug up, with plants arranged in neat bundles, ready for transport.

  “Half of them won’t survive the trip, but some of them will make it, and in a few years, I daresay I will have my old garden back again,” Lemuel said, trying to be cheerful.

  But his gaze roved sadly to the blackberry bushes, the cherry and apple trees, the enormous lilac bush. The trees and plants he could not take with him could never be replaced.

  “Perhaps you won’t have to leave, sir.” Raistlin said. “I have heard rumors that some people think Belzor is a fraud and that they intend to expose him as such.”

  “Really?” Lemuel’s face brightened, then fell again into shadow. “They won’t succeed. His followers are much too powerful. Still, it is kind of you to give me hope, even if only for a moment. Now, what is it you want, young man?” Lemuel regarded Raistlin shrewdly. “Is someone ill? Do you need some of my medicines?”

  “No, sir.” Raistlin flushed slightly, embarrassed that he was so transparent. “I would like to look over your father’s books again, if you don’t mind.”

  “Bless you, young man, they’re your books now,” Lemuel said warmly, with such kindness that Raistlin determined then and there to bring down Belzor no matter what the cost and without a thought to his own ambition. He left the mage roving unhappily about his garden, trying to decide what could be safely transplanted and what should be left behind, hoping that the next owner would properly water the hydrangea.

  Inside the library, Raistlin spent a moment looking fondly and proudly on the books—his books, soon to be his library—and then he set to work. He found the spell he was seeking without difficulty; the war mage had been a man of precise habits and had noted down each spell and its location in a separate volume. Upon reading a description of the spell—which the war mage had also included, apparently for his own reference—Raistlin was convinced beyond doubt that this indeed was the spell the High Priestess was casting.