The Soulforge

by Margaret Weis

  The dying soldier clasps his hands around the haft of the spear that has torn through his body. Raistlin seized hold of the old man’s wrist, clamped his fingers around it in a grip that death would not have relaxed.

  Caught, trapped, Fistandantilus fought to break Raistlin’s grip, but he could not free himself and retain his hold on the young man’s heart.

  The white light of Solinari, the red light of Lunitari, and the black, empty light of Nuitari—light that Raistlin could now see—merged in his fainting vision, stared down at him, an unwinking eye.

  “You may take my life,” Raistlin said, keeping fast hold of the old man’s wrist, as Fistandantilus kept hold of young man’s heart. “But you will serve me in return.”

  The eye winked, and blinked out.

  7

  HE KILLED HIS OWN BROTHER?” ANTIMODES REPEATED THE information Par-Salian had just given him, repeated it in disbelief.

  Antimodes had not been involved in Raistlin’s Test. Neither teacher nor mentor of an initiate is allowed to participate. Antimodes had handled the testing of several of the other young magi. Most had gone quite well, all had passed, though none had been as dramatic as Raistlin’s. Antimodes had been sorry he missed it. He had been until he heard this. Now he was shocked and deeply disturbed.

  “And the young man was given the Red Robes? My friend, are you in your right mind? I cannot conceive of an act more evil!”

  “He killed an illusion of his brother,” Par-Salian emphasized. “You have siblings of your own, I believe?” he asked, with a meaningful smile.

  “I know what you’re saying, and, yes, there have been times I would have been glad to see my brother engulfed in flames, but the thought is a long way from the deed. Did Raistlin know it was an illusion?”

  “When I asked him that question,” Par-Salian replied, “he looked straight at me and said in a tone that I shall never forget, ‘Does it matter?’ ”

  “Poor young man,” Antimodes said, sighing. “Poor young men, I should say, since the other twin was a witness to his own fratricide. Was that truly necessary?”

  “I deemed it so. Odd as it may seem, though he is the stronger of the two physically, Caramon is far more dependent on his brother than Raistlin is on him. By this demonstration, I had hoped to sever that unhealthy connection, to convince Caramon that he needs to build a life of his own. But I fear that my plan did not succeed. Caramon has fully exonerated his brother. Raistlin was ill, not in his right mind, not to be held responsible for his own actions. And now, to complicate matters, Raistlin is more dependent upon his brother than ever.”

  “How is the young man’s health?”

  “Not good. He will live, but only because his spirit is strong, stronger than his body.”

  “So there was a meeting between Raistlin and Fistandantilus. And Raistlin agreed to the bargain. He has given his life’s energy to feed that foul lich!”

  “There was a meeting and a bargain,” Par-Salian reiterated cautiously. “But I believe that this time Fistandantilus may have got more than he bargained for.”

  “Raistlin remembers nothing?”

  “Nothing whatsoever. Fistandantilus has seen to that. I do not believe that he wants the young man to remember. Raistlin may have agreed to the bargain, but he did not die, as did the others. Something kept him alive and defiant. If Raistlin ever does remember, I think it is Fistandantilus who might be in considerable danger.”

  “What does the young man believe happened to him?”

  “The Test itself shattered his health, left him with a weakness in his heart and lungs that will plague him the remainder of his life. He attributes that to the battle with the dark elf. I did not disabuse him of the notion. Were I to tell him the truth, he would not believe me.”

  “Do you suppose he will ever come to know the truth?”

  “Only if and when he comes to know the truth about himself,” Par-Salian answered. “He has to confront and admit the darkness within. I have given him the eyes to see with, if he will: the hourglass eyes of the sorceress Raelana. Thus he will view time’s passing in all he looks upon. Youth withers before those eyes, beauty fades, mountains crumble to dust.”

  “And what do you hope to accomplish by this torture?” Antimodes demanded angrily. He truly thought the head of the conclave had gone too far.

  “To pierce his arrogance. To teach him patience. And as I said, to give him the ability to see inside himself, should he turn his gaze inward. There will be little joy in his life,” Par-Salian admitted, adding, “but then I foresee little joy for anyone in Ansalon. I did compensate for what you deem my cruelty, however.”

  “I never said—”

  “You didn’t need to, my friend. I know how you feel. I have given Raistlin the Staff of Magius, one of our most powerful artifacts. Though it will be a long time before he knows its true power.”

  Antimodes was bitter, refusing to be mollified. “And now you have your sword.”

  “The metal withstood the fire,” Par-Salian replied gravely, “and came out tempered and true, with a fine cutting edge. Now the young man must practice, he must hone the skills he will need in the future and learn new ones.”

  “None of the conclave will apprentice him, not if they think he is somehow tied to Fistandantilus. Not even the Black Robes. They would not trust him. How, then, will he learn?”

  “I believe he will find a master. A lady has taken an interest in him, a very great interest.”

  “Not Ladonna?” Antimodes frowned.

  “No, no. Another lady, far greater and more powerful.” Par-Salian cast a glance out the window, where the red moon shone with a ruby’s glittering brilliance.

  “Ah, indeed?” Antimodes said, impressed. “Well, if that’s the case, I suppose I need not worry about him. Still, he’s very young and very frail, and we don’t have much time.”

  “As you said, it will be some years before the Dark Queen can muster her forces, before she is prepared to launch her attack.”

  “Yet already the clouds of war gather,” Antimodes remarked ominously. “We stand alone in the last rays of the setting sun. And I ask again, where are the true gods now that we need them?”

  “Where they have always been,” Par-Salian replied complacently.

  8

  RAISTLIN SAT IN A CHAIR BEFORE A DESK IN THE TOWER OF HIGH Sorcery. He had been a resident of the tower for several days, Par-Salian having given the young man permission to remain in the tower for as long as he deemed necessary to recover from the effects of the Test.

  Not that Raistlin would ever truly recover. He had never before been physically strong or healthy, but in comparison to what he was today, he looked back upon his former self with envy. He spent a moment recalling the days of his youth, realized regretfully that he had never fully appreciated them, never fully appreciated his energy and vigor. But would he go back? Would he trade his shattered body for a whole one?

  Raistlin’s hand touched the wood of the Staff of Magius, which stood at his side, was never far from his side. The wood was smooth and warm, the enchantment within the staff tingled through his fingers, an exhilarating sensation. He had only the vaguest idea what magic the staff could perform. It was requisite that any mage coming into possession of a magical artifact search out such power himself. But he was aware of the staff’s immense magical power, and he reveled in it.

  Not much information on the staff existed in the tower; many of the old manuscripts concerning Magius, which had been kept in the Tower of Palanthas, had been lost when the magi evacuated to the tower at Wayreth. The staff itself had been retained, as being of far more value, though it had—according to Par-Salian—remained unused all these centuries.

  The time had not been right for the staff’s return to the world, Par-Salian had said evasively in answer to Raistlin’s question. Until now the staff had not been needed. Raistlin wondered what made the time right now, right for a staff that had purportedly been used to help fight dragons. He w
as not likely to find out. Par-Salian kept his own counsel. He would tell Raistlin nothing about the staff, beyond where to find the books that might provide him with knowledge.

  One of those books was before him now, a smallish quarto written by some scribe attached to Huma’s retinue. The book was more frustrating than helpful. Raistlin learned a great deal about manning battlements and posting guards, information that would be useful to a war mage, but very little about the staff. What he had learned had been inadvertent. The scribe, writing an account of Magius, described the mage leaping from the topmost tower of the besieged castle to land unharmed among us, much to our great astonishment and wonder. He claimed to have used the magic of his staff.…

  Raistlin wrote in his own small volume: It appears that the staff has the ability to allow its owner to float through the air as lightly as a feather. Is this spell inherent in the staff? Must magical words be recited in order to activate this spell? Is there a limit to its usage? Will the spell work for anyone other than the magus who is in possession of the staff?

  All these were questions that must be answered, and that was just for one of the staff’s enchantments. Raistlin guessed there must be many more bound within the wood. In one sense, it was frustrating not to know. He would have liked to have had them delineated. Yet if the nature of the staff’s powers had been presented to him, he still would have pursued his studies. The old manuscripts might be lying. They might be deliberately withholding information. He trusted no one but himself.

  His studies might take him years, but …

  A spasm of coughing interrupted his work. The cough was painful, debilitating, frightening. His windpipe closed, he could not breathe, and when the paroxysms were very bad, he had the terrible feeling that he would never be able to breathe again, that he would suffocate and die.

  This was one of the bad ones. He fought, struggled to breathe. He grew faint and dizzy from lack of air, and when at last he was able to draw a breath with a certain amount of ease, he was so exhausted from the effort that he was forced to rest his head on his arms on the table. He lay there, almost sobbing. His injured ribs hurt him cruelly, his diaphragm burned from coughing.

  A gentle hand touched his shoulder.

  “Raist? Are … are you all right?”

  Raistlin sat upright, thrust aside his brother’s hand.

  “What a stupid question! Even for you. Of course I am not all right, Caramon!” Raistlin dabbed at his lips with a handkerchief, drew it back stained with blood. He swiftly concealed the handkerchief in a secret pocket of his new red robes.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” Caramon asked, patiently ignoring his brother’s ill humor.

  “You can leave me alone and quit interrupting my work!” Raistlin returned. “Are you packed? We leave within the hour, you know.”

  “If you’re sure you’re well enough …” Caramon began. Catching his brother’s irritated and baleful gaze, he bit his tongue. “I’ll … go pack,” he said, though he was already packed and had been for the past three hours.

  Caramon started to leave, tiptoeing out of the room. He fondly imagined that he was being extremely quiet. In reality, with his rattling, jingling, clanking, and creaking, he made more noise than a legion of mountain dwarves on parade.

  Reaching into the pocket, Raistlin drew forth the handkerchief, wet with his own blood. He gazed at it for a dark, brooding moment.

  “Caramon,” he called.

  “Yes, Raist?” Caramon turned around, pathetically anxious. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  They would have many years together, years of working together, living together, eating together, fighting together. Caramon had seen his twin kill him. Raistlin had seen himself kill.

  Hammer blows. One after the other.

  Raistlin sighed deeply. “Yes, my brother. There is something you can do for me. Par-Salian gave me a recipe for a tisane that he believes will help ease my cough. You will find the recipe and the ingredients in my pouch, there on the chair. If you could mix it for me …”

  “I will, Raist!” Caramon said excitedly. He couldn’t have looked more pleased if his twin had bestowed a wealth of jewels and steel coins upon him. “I haven’t noticed a teakettle, but I’m sure there must be one around here somewhere.… Oh, here it is. I guess I didn’t see it before. You keep working. I’ll just measure out these leaves.… Whew! This smells awful! Are you sure? … Never mind,” Caramon amended hurriedly. “I’ll make the tea. Maybe it’ll taste better than it smells.”

  He put on the kettle, then bent over the teapot, mixing and measuring the leaves with as much care as a gnome would take on a Life Quest.

  Raistlin returned to his reading.

  Magius struck the ogre on the head with his staff I charged in to save him, for ogre’s are notoriously thick-skulled, and I could not see that the wizard’s walking staff would inflict much damage. To my surprise, however, the ogre keeled over dead, as if it had been struck by a thunderbolt.

  Raistlin carefully noted the occurrence, writing: The staff apparently increases the force of a blow.

  “Raist,” said Caramon, turning from watching for the teapot to boil, “I just want you to know. About what happened … I understand …”

  Raistlin lifted his head, paused in his writing. He did not look at his brother, but gazed out the window. The Forest of Wayreth surrounded the tower. He looked out upon withering leaves, leafless branches, rotted and decayed stumps.

  “You are never to mention that incident to me or to anyone else, my brother, so long as you live. Do you understand?”

  “Sure, Raist,” Caramon said softly, “I understand.” He turned back to his task. “Your tea’s almost ready.”

  Raistlin closed the book he had been reading. His eyes burned from the strain of trying to decipher the scribe’s old-fashioned handwriting, he was weary from the effort involved in translating the mixture of archaic Common and the military slang spoken among soldiers and mercenaries.

  Flexing his hand, which ached from gripping the pen, Raistlin slid the volume about Magius into his belt for perusal during their long journey north. They were not returning to Solace. Antimodes had given the twins the name of a nobleman who was hiring warriors and who would, Antimodes said, be glad to hire a war mage as well. Antimodes was heading in that direction. He would be glad to have the young men ride with him.

  Raistlin had readily agreed. He planned to learn all he could from the archmagus before they parted. He had hoped that Antimodes would apprentice him, and had even been bold enough to make the request. Antimodes had refused, however. He never took apprentices, or so he said. He lacked the patience. He added that there was little opportunity in the way of apprenticeships open these days. Raistlin would be far better studying on his own.

  This was a prevarication (one could not say that a White Robe lied). The other mages who had taken the Tests had all been apprenticed. Raistlin wondered why he was the exception. He decided, after considerable thought, that it must have something to do with Caramon.

  His brother was rattling the teapot, making a most ungodly racket, slopping boiling water all over the floor and spilling the herbs.

  Would I go back to the days of my youth?

  Then my body had seemed frail, but it was strong in comparison to this fragile assembly of bones and flesh that I now inhabit, held together only by my will. Would I go back?

  Then I looked on beauty and I saw beauty. Now I look on beauty and I see it drowned, bloated, and disfigured, carried downstream by the river of time. Would I go back?

  Then we were twins. Together in the womb, together after birth, still together but now separate. The silken cords of brotherhood, cut, dangle between us, never to be restrung. Would I go back?

  Closing the volume of his precious notations, Raistlin picked up a pen and wrote on the cover:

  I, Magus.

  And, with a swift, firm stroke, he underlined it.

  CODA

  ONE EV
ENING, WHILE I WAS ABSORBED IN MY USUAL TASK OF chronicling the history of the world, Bertram, my loyal but occasionally inept assistant, crept into my study and begged leave to interrupt my work.

  “Whatever is the matter, Bertram?” I demanded, for the man was as pale as if he’d encountered a gnome bringing an incendiary device into the Great Library.

  “This, Master!” he said, his voice quavering. He held in his trembling hands a small scroll of parchment, tied with a black ribbon and sealed with black ink. Stamped upon the ink was the imprint of an eye.

  “Where did this come from?” I demanded, though I knew immediately who must have sent it.

  “That’s just it, Master,” Bertram said, holding the scroll balanced on the tips of his fingers. “I don’t know! One minute it wasn’t there. And the next minute it was.”

  Knowing I would get nothing more intelligent from Bertram than this, I told him to place the scroll on the desk and to leave. I would peruse it at my leisure. He was clearly reluctant to leave the missive, thinking no doubt that it would burst into flame or some other such nonsense. He did as I requested, however, and left with many a backward glance. Even then, he waited, hovering outside my door with—as I learned later—a bucket of water nearby, intending, no doubt, to fling it on me at the first puff of smoke.

  Breaking the seal and untying the ribbon, I found this letter, of which I have included a portion.

  To Astinus,

  It may be that I am about to undertake a daring enterprise.2 It is highly probable that I will not return from this undertaking (should I decide to undertake it) or if I do, it will be an altered state. If it should occur that I meet my demise upon this quest, then I give you leave to publish the true account of my early life, including that which has always been kept most secret, my Test in the Tower of High Sorcery. I do this in response to the many wild tales and untruths being circulated regarding me and my family. I grant you permission on the condition that Caramon also agrees with my decision.…