Antimodes was eager to see this for himself, eager to see if somehow he might be able to profit from it. He would not mention this junket to Par-Salian, of course. The Black Robes were not the only members of the conclave to keep their doings secret.
"The dwarves of Thorbardin are still in Thorbardin, we presume, mainly because no one has seen them leave. They are completely self-sufficient, with no reason to take any interest in the rest of the world, and I really don't see why they should. The hill dwarves are expanding their territory, and many are starting to travel to other lands. Some are even taking up residence outside their mountain homelands." Antimodes thought of the dwarf he'd met in Solace.
"As to the gnomes, they are like the dwarves of Thorbardin, with one exception-we assume the gnomes still reside in Mount Nevermind because no one has seen it explode yet. The kender appear to be more prolific than ever; they go everywhere, see everything, steal most of it, misplace the rest, and are of no use whatsoever."
"Oh, I think they are of use," said Par-Salian earnestly. He was known to be fond of kender, mainly so (Antimodes always said sourly) because he remained isolated in his tower and never had dealings with them. "Kender are the true innocents of this world. They remind us that we spend a great deal of time and energy worrying about things that are really not very important."
Antimodes grunted. "And so when may we expect to see you abandon your books, grab a hoopak, and take off down the road?"
Par-Salian smiled back. "Don't think I haven't considered it, my friend. I believe I would be a deft hand at hoopak flinging, if it came to that. I was quite skilled with a slingshot when I was a child. Ah, well, the evening grows long." This was his signal to end the meeting. "Will I see you in the morning?" he asked with a faint anxiety, which Antimodes understood.
"I would not dream of interfering in your work, my friend," he answered. "I will have a look through the artifacts and scrolls and the spell components, especially if you have some elven merchandise. There's one or two things I want to pick up. Then I'll be on my way."
"You are the one who would make a good kender," said Par-Salian, rising in his turn. "You never stay in one place long enough for the dust to settle on your shoes. Where do you go from here?"
"Oh, round and about," Antimodes said lightly. "I'm in no hurry to return home. My brother is capable of running the business quite well without me, and I've made arrangements for my earnings to be invested, so that I make money even when I'm not there. Much easier and far more profitable than chanting spells over a lump of iron ore. Good night, my friend."
"Good night and safe journeying," Par-Salian said, taking his friend by the hand and giving it a hearty shake. He paused a moment, tightened his grasp.
"Be careful, Antimodes. I don't like the signs. I don't like the portents. The sun shines on us now, but I see the tips of dark wings casting long shadows. Continue sending me your reports. I value them highly."
"I will be careful," said Antimodes, a little troubled by his friend's earnest appeal.
Antimodes was well aware that Par-Salian had not told all he knew. The head of the conclave was not only adept at seeing into the future, he was also known to be a favorite of Solinari, the god of white magic. Dark wings. What could he possibly mean by that? The Queen of Darkness, dear old Takhisis? Gone but not forgotten. Not dare forgotten by those who studied the past, by those who knew of what evil she was capable.
Dark wings. Vultures? Eagles? Symbols of war? Griffins, pegasi? Magical beasts, not seen much these days. Dragons?
Paladine help us!
All the more reason, Antimodes determined, why I should find out what's happening in Solamnia. He was heading out the door when Par-Salian again stopped him.
"That young pupil. the one of whom you spoke. What was his name?"
It took Antimodes a moment to shift his thoughts to this different tack, another moment to try to remember.
"Raistlin. Raistlin Majere." Par-Salian made a note of it in his book.
Chapter 5
It was early morning in Solace, very early. The sun had not yet dawned when the twins awoke in their small home that lurked in the shadows of a vallenwood. With its ill-fitting shutters, shabby curtains, and straggling, half-dead plants, the house looked nearly as forlorn and neglected as the children who inhabited it.
Their father-Gilon Majere, a big man with a broad and cheerful face, a face whose natural placidity was marred by a worry line between his brows-had not come home that night. He had traveled far from Solace on a job for a lord with an estate on Crystalmir Lake. Their mother was awake, but she had been awake since midnight.
Rosamun sat in her rocking chair, a skein of wool in her thin hands. She would wind the wool into a tight ball, tear it apart, and then rewind it. All the while she worked, she sang to herself in an eerie low-pitched voice or sometimes paused to hold conversations with people who were not visible to anyone except her. If her husband-a gentle, caring man-had been at home, he would have persuaded her to leave off her "knitting" and go to bed. Once in bed, she would continue to sing, would be up again in an hour.
Rosamun had her good days, her lucid periods, when she was cognizant of much of what was going on around her, if not particularly interested in participating in it. The daughter of a wealthy merchant, she had always relied on servants to do her bidding. Now they could not afford servants, and Rosamun was inept at running a household herself. If she was hungry, she might cook something. There might be enough left over for the rest of the family, provided she didn't forget about the food completely and leave it to burn in the kettle.
When she fancied she was doing the mending, she would sit in her chair with a basket of torn clothes in her lap and stare out the window. Or she might put her worn cloak about her shoulders and go "visiting," wandering the shaded walkways to call on one of their neighbors, who generally kept an eye out for her and managed to be gone when Rosamun rang the bell. She had been known to forget where she was and would stay in someone's house for hours until her sons found her and fetched her home.
Sometimes she would recall stories about her first husband, Gregor uth Matar, a rogue and a rake, of whom she was stupidly proud and still loved, though he had abandoned her years before.
"Gregor was a Solamnic knight," she was saying, talking to her unseen listeners. "And he did so love me. He was the most handsome man in Palanthas, and all the girls were mad about him. But he chose me. He brought me roses, and he sang songs beneath my window and took me riding on his black horse. He is dead now. I know it. He is dead now, or he would have come back to me. He died a hero, you know."
Gregor uth Matar had been declared dead, at any rate. No one had seen or heard from him in seven years, and most believed that if he wasn't decently dead he should have been. His loss was not generally mourned. He might well have been a knight of Solamnia, but if so he had been banished from that strict order years ago. It was known that he, his new wife, and their baby daughter had left Palanthas by night and in a hurry. Rumor followed him from Solamnia to Solace, whispering that he had committed murder and had escaped the hangman only by means of money and a fast horse.
He was darkly handsome. Wit and charm made him a welcome companion in any tavern, as did his courage-not even his enemies could fault him on that-and his willingness to drink, gamble, and fight. Rosamun spoke truly about one of his traits. Women adored him.
An avowed fragile beauty, with auburn hair, eyes the color of a summer forest, and silken white skin, Rosamun had been the one to conquer him. He had fallen in love with her with all of his passionate nature, had remained in love with her longer than might have been expected. But when love died, it could never, for him, be rekindled.
They had lived well in Solace. Gregor made periodic journeys back to Solamnia, whenever money was running low. His highly placed family apparently paid him well to keep out of their lives. Then came the year he returned empty-handed. Rumor held it that Gregor's family had finally cut him off. His cred
itors pressing him hard, he traveled north to Sanction to sell his sword to whoever would have him. He continued to do so, coming back home at intervals but never staying long. Rosamun was wildly jealous, accused him of leaving her for other women. Their quarrels could be heard throughout most of Solace.
And then one day Gregor left and never returned. Rumor agreed that he was probably dead, either from a sword thrust in front or, more likely, a knife in the back.
One person did not believe him to be dead. Kitiara lived for the day when she would be able to leave Solace and set out in search of her father.
She talked of this as she did what she could, in her impatient way, to ready her little brother for his journey to his new school. Raistlin's few clothes-a couple of shirts, some trousers, and some oft- mended stockings-were done up in a bundle, along with a thick cloak for the winter.
"I'll be gone by spring," Kit was saying. "This place is too stupid for words." She lined her brothers up for inspection. "What do you think you're doing? You can't go to school dressed like that!"
Grabbing Raistlin, she pointed at his bare and dusty feet. "You have to wear shoes."
"In the summer?" Caramon was stunned.
"Mine don't fit me," Raistlin said. He'd had a small growth spurt that spring. He was now as tall as his twin, if only about half his weight and a quarter of his girth.
"Here. Wear these." Kit hunted out a pair of Caramon's old shoes from last winter and tossed them at Raistlin.
"They'll pinch my toes," he protested, regarding them glumly.
"Wear them," Kit ordered. "All the other boys in the school wear shoes, don't they? Only peasants go barefoot. That's what my father says."
Raistlin made no reply. He slid his feet into the worn shoes.
Picking up a dirty dishcloth, Kit dipped it in the water bucket and scrubbed Raistlin's face and ears so vigorously that he was certain at least half his skin must be missing.
Squirming free of his sister's grasp, Raistlin saw that Rosamun dropped her ball of wool on the floor. Her beauty had faded, like a rainbow fades when the storm clouds overtake the sun. Her hair was drab and lusterless, her eyes had too bright a luster, the luster of fever or madness. Her pale skin had a gray cast to it. She stared vaguely at her empty hands, as if she were wondering what to do with them. Caramon picked up the wool, handed it to her.
"Here, Mother."
"Thank you, child." She turned her vacant gaze to him. "Gregor's dead, do you know that, child?" "Yes, Mother," Caramon said, not really hearing her.
Rosamun would often make incongruous statements like this. Her children were used to them and generally ignored them. But this morning Kitiara rounded on her mother in sudden fury. "He's not dead! What do you know? He never cared for you! Don't say things like that, you crazy old witch!"
Rosamun smiled and twined her wool and sang to herself. Her boys stood nearby, quiet, unhappy. Kit's words hurt them far more than they hurt Rosamun, who wasn't paying the slightest attention to her daughter.
"He's not dead! I know it and I'm going to find him!" Kitiara declared, her vow low and fervent.
"How do you know he's alive?" Caramon asked. "And if he is, how will you find him? I've heard there are lots of people in Solamnia. Even more than here in Solace."
"I'll find him," Kit replied confidently. "He told me how." She gazed at them speculatively. "Look, this is probably the last time you'll see me for a long while. Come here. I'll show you something if you promise not to tell."
Leading them into the small room where she slept, she produced from her mattress a crudely crafted, handmade leather pouch. "In here. This is my fortune."
"Money?" Caramon asked, brightening.
"No!" Kitiara scoffed at the notion. "Something better than money. My birthright." "Let me see!" Caramon begged.
Kitiara refused. "I promised my father I would never show it to anyone. At least not yet. Someday, though, you will see it. When I come back rich and powerful and riding at the head of my armies, then you will see it."
"We'll be part of your army, won't we, Kit," Caramon said. "Raist and me."
"You'll be captains, both of you. I'll be your commander, of course," Kit said matter-of-factly.
"I'd like being a captain." Caramon was enthusiastic. "What about you, Raist?"
Raistlin shrugged. "I don't care." After another lingering glance at the pouch, he said quietly, "We should leave now. I'll be late."
Kit eyed them, her hands on her hips. "You'll do, I suppose. You come straight back home, Caramon, after you drop Raistlin off. No hanging about the school. You two have to get used to being separated."
"Sure, Kit." It was now Caramon's turn to be glum.
Raistlin went to his mother, took her by the hand. "Good-bye, Mother," he said with a catch in his voice.
"Good-bye, dear," she said. "Don't forget to cover your head when it's damp."
And that was his blessing. Raistlin had endeavored to explain to his mother where he was going, but she had been completely unable to comprehend. "Studying magic? Whatever for? Don't be silly, child."
Raistlin had given up. He and Caramon left the house just as the sun was gilding the tips of the vallenwood leaves.
"I'm glad Kit didn't want to come with us. I have something to tell you," Caramon said in a loud whisper. He glanced back fearfully to see if his sister was watching them. The door slammed shut. Her duty for the morning done, Kitiara was going back to bed.
The children took the tree walkways as far as they could. Then, when the rope bridges came to an end, the twins ran down a long staircase to reach the forest floor. A narrow road, little more than two wheel ruts and a hard-baked footpath, led in the direction they were going.
The boys ate hunks of stale bread, which they had torn off a loaf that had been left out on the table.
"Look, there's blue stuff on this bread," Caramon noted, pausing between bites.
"It's mold," said Raistlin.
"Oh." Caramon ate the bread, mold and all, observing that it "wasn't bad, just sort of bitter."
Raistlin carefully removed the part of the bread with the mold. He studied the mold intently, then slipped the piece inside a pouch he carried with him everywhere. By the end of the day, that pouch would be filled with various specimens of plant and animal life. He spent his evenings studying them.
"It's a long walk to the school," Caramon stated, his bare feet scuffing up the dirt on the road. "Almost five miles, Father says. And once you get there, you have to sit at a desk all day and not move, and they don't let you go outside or nothing. Are you sure you're going to like that, Raist?"
Raistlin had seen the interior of the school only once. It consisted of a large room, with no windows, so that there were no outside distractions. The floor was stone. The desks stood high off the stone floor, so that the winter cold would not chill their feet. The students sat on tall stools. Shelves containing jars with various herbs and other things in them that ranged from the horrible and disgusting to the pleasant or mysterious lined the walls. These jars held the spell components. Other shelves held scroll cases. Most of the scrolls were blank, meant for the students to write upon. But some were not.
Raistlin thought of this quiet, dark room, the peaceful hours spent in study with no distractions from unruly brothers, and he smiled. "I won't mind it," he said.
Caramon had picked up a stick, was slashing about with it, pretending it was a sword. "I wouldn't want to go there. I know that. And that teacher. He has a face like a frog. He looks mean. Do you think he'll whip you?"
The teacher, Master Theobald, had indeed looked mean. Not only that, but their first meeting proved him to be haughty, self-important, and probably less intelligent than the majority of his pupils. Unable to gain their respect, he would almost certainly resort to physical intimidation. Raistlin had seen the long willow branch standing in a prominent place beside the master's desk.
"If he does," Raistlin said, thinking of what Antimodes had told him, "it w
ill be just another blow of the hammer."
"You think he'll hit you with a hammer?" Caramon demanded, horrified. He halted in the middle of the road. "You shouldn't go to that place, Raist."
"No, that's not what I meant, Caramon," Raistlin said, trying to be patient with his twin's ignorance. After all, the statement had been somewhat bizarre. "I'll try to explain. You fight with a stick now, but someday you'll own a sword, a real sword, won't you?"
"You bet. Kit's going to bring me one. She'll bring you one, too, if you ask her."
"I already have a sword, Caramon," Raistlin said. "Not a sword like yours. Not one made of metal. This sword is inside me. It's not a very good weapon right now. It needs to be hammered into shape. That's why I'm going to this school."
"To learn to make swords?" Caramon asked, frowning with the mental effort. "Is it a blacksmith school, then?"
Raistlin sighed. "Not real swords, Caramon. Mental swords. Magic will be my sword."
"If you say so. But anyhow, if that teacher does whip you, just tell me." Caramon clenched his fists. "I'll take care of him. This sure is a long walk," he repeated.
"It is a long walk," Raistlin agreed. They'd gone only about a quarter of the distance, and he was already tired, although he didn't admit it. "But you don't have to come with me, you know."
"Well, of course I do!" Caramon said, looking astonished at the idea. "What if you get attacked by goblins? You'd need me to defend you."
"With a wooden sword," Raistlin observed dryly.
"Like you said, someday I'll have a real one›" Caramon answered, his enthusiasm undaunted by logic. "Kitiara promised. Hey, that reminds me of what I was going to tell you. I think Kit's getting ready to go somewhere. Yesterday I ran into her coming down the stairs from that tavern at the edge of town. The Trough."
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