And he disgusted himself. He saw himself for the first time through the eyes of these children. He had tamely gone along with the knights' cold-shouldered treatment, had even curried their favor in a most undignified manner. He had suppressed who and what he was. He had not unpacked his white robes once during the trip. He had removed his pouches of spell components and hidden the scroll cases under the bed.
"At my age, you'd think I would know better," he said to himself sourly. "What a fool I made of myself. They must have rolled their eyes and breathed sighs of relief when I left. It is a good thing Par-Salian doesn't know of this. I'm thankful I never mentioned my intention of traveling to Solamnia to him."
"Greetings again, Archmagus," said a child's voice.
Antimodes blinked, returned to the present. Raistlin had entered the room. The archmage had been looking forward to this meeting. He had taken a keen interest in the boy since the first time they'd met. The conversations with the other children had been merely a ruse, contrived in order to have the chance to talk privately with this one extraordinary child. But his recent discoveries had so devastated Antimodes that he found no pleasure in talking with the one student who showed any aptitude at all for magic.
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 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.' "