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.
Chapter 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 was 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 th
e 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 evening, 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. 1 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…
I did not forget about Raistlin's charge to me, as some have implied. Neither Caramon nor I deemed the time right for publication of his book. Now that his nephew Palin has grown to manhood and has taken his own Test in the Tower, Caramon has given his permission for the book to be published.
This is the true account of Raistlin's early life. Astute readers will note discrepancies between this account and others which have come before. I trust those readers will take into consideration the fact that the name of Raistlin Majere had become legend over the years. A great deal that has been written, told, and sung about the great mage is either false or a distortion of the truth.
I am guilty of some of this myself, for I deliberately misled people in regard to certain aspects of Raistlin's life. The Test in the Tower of High Sorcery-the Test that proved to have such a devastating and fateful influence on him-is one of the most important. Other accounts exist of his Test, but this is the first time the true account has been written.
The Conclave of Wizards has long decreed that the nature of the Test be kept secret. Following Raistlin's "death," certain wild and destructive rumors began to circulate regarding him. Caramon asked for permission from Par-Salian to lay these rumors to rest. Since the rumors appeared likely to damage the reputations of all magic-users on Krynn, the Conclave granted permission for the story to be told, but only if certain of the facts were altered.
Thus Caramon caused to be written an abbreviated story of Raistlin's Test, which came to be known as the Test of the Twins. In essence, the story is true, though you will see that the actual events are a great deal different form those earlier portrayed.
I finish with the conclusion of Raistlin's letter.
… I break the silence now because I want the facts known. If I am to be judged by those who come after me, let me be judged for the truth. I dedicate this book to the one who gave me life.
Raistlin Majere
Notes
1
1 The enterprise to which he refers is his attempt to enter the Abyss and overthrow Takhisis. Those interested may find this tale in the Great Library, in the books marked "Dragonlance Legends."
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