It had been three months ago when the Head of the Order arrived at his master's home. Par-Salian had invited Raistlin to visit with him as he dined-much to the master's surprise.
"When do you take the Test, Raistlin?" the old man asked the young conjurer.
"Test?" Raistlin repeated, startled. No need to ask which Test-there was only one.
"He is not ready, Par-Salian," his master protested. "He is young-only twenty-one! His spellbook is far from complete-"
"Yes," Par-Salian interrupted, his eyes narrowing. "But you believe you are ready, don't you, Raistlin?"
Raistlin had kept his eyes lowered, in the proper show of humility, his hood drawn over his face. Suddenly, he threw backhis hood and lifted his head, staring directly, proudly, at Par Salian. "I am ready. Great One," Raistlin spoke coolly.
Par-Salian nodded, his eyes glittering. "Begin your journey in three months' time," the old man said, then went back to eating his fish.
Raistlin's master gave him a furious glance, rebuking him for his impudence. Par-Salian did not look at him again. The young conjurer bowed and left without a word.
The servant let him out; however, Raistlin slipped back through the unlocked door, cast a sleep spell upon the servant, and stood, hidden in the alcove, listening to the conversation between his master and Par-Salian.
"The Order has never tested one so young," the master said. "And you chose him! Of all my pupils, he is the most unworthy. I simply do not understand."
"You don't like him, do you?" Par-Salian asked mildly.
"No one does," the master snapped. "There is no compassion in him, no humanity. He is greedy and grasping, difficult to trust. Did you know that his nickname among the other students is the Sly One? He absorbs from everyone's soul and gives back nothing of his own. His eyes are mirrors; they reflect all he sees in cold, brittle terms."
"He is highly intelligent," Par-Salian suggested.
"Oh, there's no denying that." The master sniffed. "He is my best pupil. And he has a natural affinity for magic. Not one of those surface users."
"Yes," Par-Salian agreed. "Raistlin's magic springs from deep within."
"But it springs from a dark well," the master said, shaking his head. "Sometimes I look at him and shudder, seeing the Black Robes fall upon him. That will be his destiny, I fear."
"I think not," Par-Salian said thoughtfully. "There is more to him than you see, though I admit he keeps it well hidden. More to him than he knows himself, I'll wager."
"Mmmmm," the master sounded very dubious.
Raistlin smiled to himself, a twisted smile. It came as no surprise to learn his master's true feelings. Raistlin sneered. Who cares? he thought bitterly. As for Par-Salian-Raistlin shrugged it off.
"What of his brother?" Par-Salian asked.
Raistlin, his ear pressed against the door, frowned.
"Ah!" The master became effusive. "Night and day. Caramon is handsome, honorable, trusting, everyone's friend. Theirs is a strange relationship. I have seen Raistlin watch Caramon with a fierce, burning love in his eyes. And the next instant, I have seen such hatred and jealousy I think the young man could murder his twin without giving it a second thought." He coughed, apologetically. "Let me send you Algenon, Great One. He is not as intelligent as Raistlin, but his heart is true and good."
"Algenon is too good," Par-Salian snorted. "He has never known torment or suffering or evil. Set him in a cold, biting wind and he will wither like a maiden's first rose. But Raistlin-well, one who constantly battles evil within will not be overly dismayed by evil without."
Raistlin heard chairs scrape. Par-Salian stood up.
"Let's not argue. I was given a choice to make and I have made it," Par-Salian said.
"Forgive me. Great One, I did not mean to be contradictory," the master said stiffly, hurt.
Raistlin heard Par-Salian sigh wearily. "I should be the one to apologize, old friend," he said. "Forgive me. There is trouble coming upon us that the world may not survive. This choice has been a heavy burden upon me. As you know, the Test may well prove fatal to the young man."
"It has killed others more worthy," the master murmured.
Their conversation turned to other matters, so Raistlin crept away.
The young mage considered Par-Salian's words many times during the weeks that followed while he prepared for his journey. Sometimes he would hug himself with pride at being chosen by the Great One to take the Test-the greatest honor conferred on a magician. But, at night, the words may well prove fatal haunted his dreams.
He thought, as he drew nearer and nearer the Towers, about those who had not survived. Their belongings had been returned to their families, without a single word (other than Par-Salian's regrets). For this reason, many magicians did not take the Test. After all, it gave no additional power. It added no spells to the spellbook. One could practice magic quite well without it, and many did so. But they were not considered «true» magic-users by their peers, and they knew it. The Test gave a mage an aura that surrounded him. When entering the presence of others, this aura was deeply felt by all and, therefore, commanded respect.
Raistlin hungered for that respect. But did he hunger for it enough to be willing to die trying to obtain it?
"There it is!" Caramon interrupted his thoughts, reining his horse in sharply.
"The fabled Towers of High Sorcery," Raistlin said, staring in awe.
The three tall stone towers resembled skeletal fingers, clawing out of the grave.
"We could turn back now," Caramon croaked, his voice breaking.
Raistlin looked at his brother in astonishment. For the first time since he could remember, Raistlin saw fear in Caramon. The young conjurer felt an unusual sensation-a warmth spread over him. He reached out and put a steady hand on his brother's trembling arm. "Do not be afraid, Caramon," Raistlin said, "I am with you."
Caramon looked at Raistlin, then laughed nervously to himself. He urged his horse forward.
The two entered the Towers. Vast stone walls and darkness swallowed them up, then they heard the voice: "Approach."
The two walked ahead. Raistlin walked steadfastly, but Caramon moved warily, his hand on the hilt of his sword. They came to stand before a withered figure sitting in the center of a cold, empty chamber.
"Welcome, Raistlin," Par-Salian said. "Do you consider yourself prepared to undergo your final Test?"
"I do, Par-Salian, Greatest of Them All."
Par-Salian studied the young man before him. The conjurer's pale, thin cheeks were stained with a faint flush, as though fever burned in his blood. "Who accompanies you?" Par-Salian asked.
"My twin brother, Caramon, Great Mage." Raist-lin's mouth twisted into a snarl. "As you see. Great One, I am no fighter. My brother came to protect me."
Par-Salian stared at the brothers, reflecting on the odd humor of the gods. Twins! This Caramon is huge. Six feet tall, he must weigh over two hundred pounds. His face-a face of smiles and boisterous laughter; the eyes are as open as his heart. Poor Raistlin.
Par-Salian turned his gaze back to the young man whose red robes hung from thin, stooped shoulders. Obviously weak, Raistlin was the one who could never take what he wanted, so he had learned, long ago, that magic could compensate for his deficiencies. Par-Salian looked into the eyes. No, they were not mirrors as the master had said-not for those with the power to see deeply. There was good inside the young man-an inner core of strength that would enable his fragile body to endure much. But now his soul was a cold, shapeless mass, dark with pride, greed, and selfishness. Therefore, as a shapeless mass of metal isplunged into a white-hot fire and emerges shining steel, so Par Salian intended to forge this conjurer.