Dragonlance 12 - Raistlin Chronicles - Soulforge (10 page)

What future lay ahead for this boy? A future in which wizards were stoned to death? At least, Antimodes thought bitterly, the populace had feared Esmilla, the black-robed wizardess, and fear implies a certain amount of respect. How much worse if they had merely laughed at her! But wasn't that where they were heading? Would magic end up in the hands of disappointed butchers?

Raistlin coughed slightly and shifted nervously on his feet. Antimodes realized that he'd been staring at the child in silence, long enough to make Raistlin feel uncomfortable.

"Forgive me, Raistlin," Antimodes said, motioning the boy to come forward. "I have traveled far and I am weary. And my trip was not entirely satisfactory."

"I'm sorry to hear that, sir," Raistlin said, regarding Anti-modes with those blue eyes that were much too old and wise.

"And I am sorry that I praised your work in the schoolroom." Antimodes smiled ruefully. "I should have known better."

"Why, sir?" Raistlin was puzzled. "Wasn't it good, as you said?"

"Well, yes, but your classmates… I should not have singled you out. I know boys your age, you see.

I was a bit of a rascal myself, I'm sorry to say. I'm afraid they'll be hard on you."

Raistlin shrugged his thin shoulders. "They're ignorant."

"Ahem. Well, now." Antimodes frowned, disapproving. It was all very proper for him, an adult, to think this, but it seemed wrong in the child to say it. Disloyal.

"They can't rise to my level," Raistlin continued, "and so they want to drag me down to theirs.

Sometimes"—the blue eyes staring at Antimodes were as clear and brilliant as glare ice—"they hurt me."

"I… I'm sorry," Antimodes said, a lame statement, but then he was so completely taken aback by this child, by his coolness and astute observations, that he could think of nothing more intelligent.

"Don't be sorry for me!" Raistlin flared, and there was the flash of fire on the ice. "I don't mind," he added more calmly and shrugged again. "It's a compliment, really. They're afraid of me."

The populace had feared Esmilla, the black-robed wizardess, and fear implies a certain amount of respect. How much worse if they had merely laughed at her! Antimodes recalled his own thoughts.

Hearing them repeated in this childish treble sent a shiver up his spine. A child should not be this wise, should not be forced to bear the burden of such cynical wisdom this young.

Raistlin smiled then, an ingenuous smile. "It's a hammer blow. I think about what you told me, sir.

How the hammer blows forge the soul. And the water cools them. Except I don't cry. Or if I do," he added, his voice hardening, "it's when they can't see me."

Antimodes stared, amazed and confused. Part of him wanted to hug close this precocious child, while another part warned him to snatch the child up and toss him into the fire, crush him as one crushes the egg of a viper. This dichotomy of emotion so unsettled him that he was forced to rise to his feet and take a turn about the room before he felt capable of continuing the conversation.

Raistlin stood silently, waiting patiently for the adult to finish indulging himself in the strange and inexplicable behavior adults often exhibited. The boy's gaze left Antimodes and strayed to the book shelves, where the gaze focused and sharpened with a hungry edge.

That reminded Antimodes of something he'd meant to tell the boy and had, in the ensuing disturbing conversation, almost forgotten. He returned to his chair, sat forward in the seat.

"I meant to tell you, young man. I saw your sister when I was in… on my travels."

Raistlin's gaze darted back to the archmage, was alight with interest. "Kitiara? You saw her, sir?"

"Yes. I was quite astonished, I may tell you. One doesn't expect… a girl that age…" He paused, not quite certain where, under the light of the lad's blue eyes, to go from here.

Raistlin understood. "She left home shortly after I was enrolled in the school, Archmagus. I think she'd wanted to leave before that, but she was worried about Caramon and me. Me especially. She figures that now I can take care of myself."

"You're still only a child," Antimodes said sternly, deciding precociousness had gone far enough.

"But I can take care of myself," Raistlin said, and the smile— the smirk Antimodes had seen earlier

—touched his lips. The smile widened when Master Theobald's loud, haranguing voice was heard booming through the door.

"Kitiara came home a couple of months after she left, before winter set in," Raistlin continued. "She gave Father some money to pay for her room and board. He said it wasn't necessary but she said it was; she wouldn't take anything from him ever again. She wore a sword, a real one. It had dried blood on it. She gave Caramon a sword, but Father was angry and took it away from him. She didn't stay long. Where did you see her?"

"I can't quite recall the name of the place," Antimodes said, carefully evasive. "These small towns.

They all look alike after a while. She was in a tavern with some… companions."

Disreputable companions, he almost said, but he didn't, not wanting to upset the child, who seemed genuinely fond of his half-sister. He had seen her among mercenary soldiers of the very worst sort, the kind who sell their swords for money and are willing to sell their souls, too, if anyone happened to want the wretched things.

"She told me a story about you," Antimodes went on quickly, not giving the child time to ask more questions. "She said that when your father first brought you here, to Master Theobald's, you came into his library—this very room—sat down and began to read one of the books of magic."

At first Raistlin looked startled, then he smiled. Not the smirk, but a mischievous grin that reminded Antimodes that this boy really was only six years old.

"That wouldn't be possible," Raistlin said, with a sidelong glance at Antimodes. "I'm only now learning to read and write magic."

"I know it's not possible," Antimodes replied, smiling himself. The boy could be quite charming when he chose. "Where would she have come by such a story, then?"

"My brother," Raistlin answered. "We were in the classroom, and my father and the master were talking about letting me enter the school. The master didn't want to admit me."

Antimodes raised his eyebrows, shocked. "How do you know? Did he say so?"

"Not in so many words. But he said I wasn't properly brought up. I should speak only when I was addressed, and I should keep my eyes down and not 'stare him out of countenance.' That's what he said. I was 'pert' and 'glib' and 'disrespectful.' "

"So you are, Raistlin," admonished Antimodes, thinking he should. "You should show your master and your classmates more respect."

Raistlin shrugged, dismissed them all with that shrug, and continued with his story. "I got bored listening to Father apologize for me, and so Caramon and I went exploring. We came in here. I pulled a book off the shelf. One of the spellbooks. Only a practice one. The master keeps the real spellbooks locked up in his cellar. I know."

The child's voice was cool, serious; the eyes glistened with longing. Antimodes was suitably alarmed and made a mental note to warn Theobald that his precious spellbooks may not be as safe as the master imagined.

Then suddenly the boy was a boy again. "I may have told Caramon the spellbook was real," Raistlin said, the mischievous grin returning. "I don't remember. Anyway, Master Theobald came dashing in, all huffing and puffing and mad. He scolded me for wandering off and 'invading his privacy,' and when he saw me with the book, he got madder still. I wasn't reading a spell. I couldn't read any of it.

"But"—Raistlin gave Antimodes a sly glance—"there's an illusionist in town. His name is Waylan, and I've heard him use magic and I memorized some of the words. I know the spells won't work, but I use them for fun when the other boys are playing at war. I said some of the words. Caramon was all excited and told father that I was going to summon a demon from the Abyss. Master Theobald got really red in the face and grabbed the book away from me. He knew I wasn't really reading the words," Raistlin added coolly. "He just wanted a chance to get rid of me."

"Master Theobald accepted you into his school," said Anti-modes sternly. "He didn't 'get rid of you,'

as you put it. And what you did was wrong. You should not have taken the book without his permission."

"He had to take me," Raistlin said flatly. "My schooling was bought and paid for." He stared very hard at Antimodes, who, having expected this, was prepared for it and returned the stare with bland innocence.

The child had met his match. He lowered his gaze, shifted it to the bookcase. One corner of his mouth twitched. "Caramon must have told Kitiara. He really did think I was going to summon a demon, you know. Caramon's like a kender. He'll believe anything you tell him."

"Do you love your brother?" Antimodes asked impulsively.

"Of course," Raistlin responded blandly, smoothly. "He's my twin."

"Yes, you are twins, aren't you," Antimodes said reflectively. "I wonder if your brother has a talent for magic? It would seem logic—"

He stopped, confounded, struck dumb by the look Raistlin gave him. It was a blow, as if the child had struck out with his fists. No, not with fists. With a dagger.

Antimodes recoiled, startled unpleasantly by the malevolence in the child's expression. The question had been idle, harmless. He had certainly not expected such a reaction.

"May I return to class now, sir?" Raistlin asked politely. His face was smooth, if somewhat pale.

"Uh, yes. I… uh… enjoyed our visit," said Antimodes.

Raistlin made no comment. He bowed politely, as all the boys were taught to bow, then went to the door, opened it.

A wave of noise and heat, bringing with it the smell of small boys and boiled cabbage and ink, surged into the library, reminding Antimodes of the tide coming in on the dirty beaches at Flotsam.

The door shut behind the boy.

Antimodes sat quite still for long moments, recovering. This was difficult to do at first, because he kept seeing those blue poignard eyes, glittering with anger, sliding through his flesh. Finally, realizing that the day was winding on and that he wanted to reach the Inn of the Last Home before dark, Antimodes shook off the aftereffects of the unfortunate scene and returned to the schoolroom to make his farewells to Master Theobald.

Raistlin, Antimodes noted, did not look up as he entered.

The ride along the road on his placid donkey Jenny, past fields green with the early summer's first blooms, soothed Antimodes's soul. By the time he reached the inn, he could even laugh at himself ruefully, admit that he'd been in the wrong for asking such a personal question, and shrug off the incident. Putting Jenny up in the public stables, Antimodes wended his way to the inn, where he coated his troubles with Otik's honey mead and slept soundly.

* * * * *

That meeting was the last time Antimodes would see Raistlin for many years. The archmage maintained his interest in Raistlin and kept current on his advancement through his studies.

Whenever a wizards' conclave was called, Antimodes made it a point to seek out Master Theobald and interrogate him. Antimodes continued paying for Raistlin's education as well. Hearing of the progress of the pupil, Antimodes considered it money well spent.

But he would not forget his question about the twin brother.

Nor would he forget Raistlin's answer.

I will do this. Nothing in my life matters except this. No moment in my life exists except this
moment. I am born in this moment, and if I fail, I will die in this moment.

—Raistlin Majere

Raist! Over here!" Caramon waved from the front of the farmer's cart, which he was driving. At the age of thirteen, so tall and broad and muscular that he often passed for much older, Caramon had become Farmer Sedge's top field hand.

Caramon's hair curled on his brow in soft auburn rings, his eyes were cheerful, friendly, and guileless: gullible. The children adored him, and so did every shyster, beggar, and con artist that passed through Solace. He was unusually strong for his age, also unusually gentle. He had a formidable temper when riled, but the fuse was buried so deep and took so long to burn that Caramon usually realized he was angry only when the quarrel had long since ended.

The only time his anger exploded was when someone threatened his twin.

Raistlin lifted his hand to acknowledge his brother's shout. He was glad to see Caramon, glad to see a friendly face.

Seven winters ago, Raistlin had decided that he must board at Master Theobald's school during the coldest months of the year, an arrangement that meant for the first time in their lives the twin brothers were separated.

Seven winters passed, with Raistlin absent from his home. In springtime, like this spring, when the sun melted the frozen roads and brought the first green and golden buds to the vallenwoods, the twins were reunited.

Long ago, Raistlin had given up secretly hoping that someday he would look into a mirror and see in himself the image of his handsome twin. Raistlin, with his fine-boned features and large eyes, his soft-to-the-touch reddish hair that brushed his shoulders, would have been the more handsome of the two but for his eyes. They held the gaze too long, stared too deeply, saw too much, and there was always the faint hint of scorn in them, for he saw clearly the shams and artifices and absurdities of people and was both amused and disgusted with them.

Jumping down from the cart, Caramon gave his brother a boisterous hug, which Raistlin did not return. He used the bundle of clothes he held in both arms as an excuse to avoid an overt show of affection, a show Raistlin found undignified and annoying. His body stiffened in his brother's embrace, but Caramon was too excited to notice. He grabbed the bundle, flung it in the back of the cart.

"C'mon, I'll help you up," Caramon offered.

Raistlin was beginning to think he wasn't as glad to see his twin as he'd first imagined. He had forgotten how irritating Caramon could be.