Raistlin touched the feather with his finger. He was extraordinarily conscious of the feather's feel, its crispness contrasting oddly with its softness. Rainbows, cast by the globe light, shimmered on the feather's glistening black surface. The point was newly cut, sharp. No cracked and sputtering pen for this important event.
The smell of the ink reminded him of Antimodes and the time he had praised Raistlin's work. Raistlin had long ago discovered, through eavesdropping on a conversation between the master and Gilon, that Antimodes was paying the bill for this school, not the conclave, as the archmagus had intimated. This test would prove if his investment had been sound.
Raistlin prepared to dip the quill in the ink, then hesitated, feeling a qualm of near panic. Everything he had been taught seemed to slide from his mind, like butter melting in a hot skillet. He could not remember how to spell Magus! The quill shook in his sweaty fingers. He glanced sidelong, through lowered lashes, at the other two.
"I'm done," said Gordo.
Ink covered his fingers; he'd managed to splash it on his face, where the black splotches overlapped the brown freckles. He held up the scroll, on which he'd first printed the word Magos. Having sneaked a peak at Jon Farnish's scroll, Gordo had hastily crossed out Magos and written Magus in next to it.
"I'm done," Gordo repeated loudly. "What happens now?"
"For you, nothing," said Theobald with a severe look.
"But I wrote the word just as good as him," Gordo protested, sulking.
"Have you learned nothing, you stupid boy?" Theobald demanded angrily. "A word of magic must be written perfectly, spelled correctly, the first time. You are writing not only with the lamb's blood but with your own blood. The magic flows through you and into the pen and from thence onto the scroll."
"Oh, bugger it," said Gordo, and he shoved the scroll off the table.
Jon Farnish was writing with ease, seemingly, the pen gliding over the sheepskin, a spot of ink on his right forefinger. His handwriting was readable, but tended to be cramped and small.
Raistlin dipped the quill in the ink and began to write, in sharply angled, bold, large letters, the words I, Magus.
Jon Farnish sat back, a look of satisfaction on his face. Raistlin, just finishing, heard the boy catch his breath. Raistlin looked up.
The letters on the sheepskin in front of Jon Famish had begun to glow. The glow was faint, a dim red-orange, a spark newly struck, struggling for life.
"Garn!" said Gordo, impressed. This almost made up for the demon.
"Well done, Jon," said Master Theobald expansively.
Flushed with pleasure, Jon Farnish gazed in awe at the parchment and then he laughed. "I have it!" he cried.
Master Theobald turned his gaze to Raistlin. Though the master attempted to appear concerned, one corner of his lip curled.
The black letters on the sheepskin in front of Raistlin remained black.
Raistlin clutched the quill so violently he snapped off the top. He looked away from the exultant Jon Farnish, he paid no attention to the scornful Gordo, he blotted from his mind the leering triumph of the master. He concentrated on the letters in I, Magus and he said a prayer.
"Gods of magic, if you are gods and not just moons, don't let me fail, don't let me falter."
Raistlin turned inward, to the very core of his being, and he vowed, I will do this. Nothing in my life matters except this. No moment of my life exists except this moment. I am born in this moment, and if I fail, I will die in this moment.
Gods of magic, help me! I will dedicate my life to you. I will serve you always. I will bring glory to your name. Help me, please, help me!
He wanted this so much. He had worked so hard for it, for so long. He focused on the magic, concentrated all his energy. His frail body began to wilt beneath the strain. He felt faint and giddy. The globe of light expanded in his dazed vision to three globes. The floor was unsteady beneath him. He lowered his head in despair to the stone table.
The stone was cool and firm beneath his fevered cheek. He shut his eyes, hot tears burned the lids. He could still see, imprinted on his eyelids, the three globes of magical light.
To his astonishment, he saw that inside each globe was a person.
One was a fine, handsome young man, dressed all in white robes that shimmered with a silver light. He was strong and well muscled, with the physique of a warrior. He carried in his hand a staff of wood, topped by a golden dragon's claw holding a diamond.
Another was also a young man, but he was not handsome. He was grotesque. His face was as round as a moon, his eyes were dry, dark and empty wells. He was dressed in black robes, and he held in his hands a crystal orb, inside which swirled the heads of five dragons: red, green, blue, white, and black.
Standing between the two was a beautiful young woman. Her hair was as black as the crow's wing, streaked with white. Her robes were as red as blood. She held, in her arms, a large leather-bound book.
The three were vastly different, strangely alike. "Do you know who we are?" asked the man in white.
Raistlin nodded hesitantly. He knew them. He wasn't quite sure he understood why or how.
"You pray to us, yet many speak our names with their lips only, not their hearts. Do you truly believe in us?" asked the woman in red.
Raistlin considered this question. "You came to me, didn't you?" he answered.
The glib answer displeased the god of light and the god of darkness. The man with the moon face grew colder, and the man in white looked grim. The woman in red was pleased with him, however. She smiled.
Solinari spoke sternly. "You are very young. Do you understand the promise you have made to us? The promise to worship us and glorify our names? To do so will go against the beliefs of many, may put you into mortal danger."
"I understand," Raistlin answered without hesitation.
Nuitari spoke next, his voice like splinters of ice. "Are you prepared to make the sacrifices we will require of you?"
"I am prepared," Raistlin answered steadily, adding, but only to himself, after all, what more can you demand of me that I have not already given?
The three heard his unspoken response. Solinari shook his head. Nuitari wore a most sinister grin. Lunitari's laughter danced through Raistlin, exhilarating, disturbing. "You do not understand. And if you could foresee what will be asked of you in the future, you would run from this place and never come back. Still, we have watched you and we have been impressed with you. We grant your request on one condition. Remember always that you have seen us and spoken to us. Never deny your faith in us, or we will deny you."
The three globes of light coalesced into one, looking very much like an eye, with a white rim, a red iris, a black pupil. The eye blinked once and then remained wide open, staring.
The words I, Magus were all he could see, black on white lamb's skin.
"Are you ill, Raistlin?" The master's voice, as through a dank fog.
"Shut up!" Raistlin breathed. Doesn't the fool know they are here? Doesn't he know they are watching, waiting?
"I, Magus." Raistlin whispered the words aloud. Black on white, he imbued them with his heart's blood.
The black letters began to glow red, like the sword resting in the blacksmith's forge fire. The letters burned hotter and brighter until I, Magus was traced in letters of flame. The lamb's skin blackened, curled in upon itself, was consumed. The fire died.