Raistlin, exhausted, sagged on his stool. On the stone table before him was nothing but a charred spot and bits of greasy ash. Inside him burned a fire that would never be quenched, perhaps not even in death.
He heard a noise, a sort of strangled croak.
Master Theobald, Gordo, and Jon Farnish were all staring at him, wide-eyed and openmouthed.
Raistlin slid off his stool, made a polite bow to the master. "May I be excused now, sir?"
Theobald nodded silently, unable to speak. He would later tell the story at the conclave, tell of the remarkable test performed by one of his young pupils, relate how the lamb's skin had been devoured by the flames. Theobald added, with due modesty, that it was his skill as a teacher that had undoubtedly inspired his young pupil, wrought such a miracle.
Antimodes would make a special point to inform Par-Salian, who noted the incident with an asterisk next to Raistlin's name in the book where he kept a list of every student of magic in Ansalon.
That night, when the others were asleep, Raistlin wrapped himself in his thick cloak and slipped outside.
The snow had stopped falling. The stars and moons were scattered like a rich lady's jewels across the black sky. Solinari was a shining diamond. Lunitari a bright ruby. Nuitari, ebony and onyx, could not be seen, but he was there. He was there.
The snow glistened white and pure and untouched in the lambent light of stars and moons. The trees cast double shadows that streaked the white with black, black tinged with blood-red.
Raistlin looked up at the moons and he laughed, ringing laughter that echoed among the trees, laughter that could be heard all the way to heaven. He dashed headlong into the woods, trampling the white unbroken snowbanks, leaving his tracks, his mark.
Book 3
The magic is in the blood, it flows from the heart. Every time you use it, part of yourself goes with it. Only when you are prepared to give of yourself and receive nothing back will the magic work for you.
Chapter 1
Raistlin sat on his stool in the classroom, hunched over his desk, laboriously copying a spell. It was a sleep spell, simple for an experienced wizard, but still far beyond the reach of a sixteen-year-old, no matter how precocious. Raistlin knew this because, though he had been forbidden to do so, he had attempted to cast the spell.
Armed with his elementary spellbook, smuggled out of school beneath his shirt, and the requisite spell component, Raistlin had tried to cast the sleep spell on his uneasy but steadfastly loyal brother. He had spoken the words, flung the sand into Caramon's face, and waited.
"Stop that, Caramon! Put your hands down."
"But, Raist! I got sand in my eyes!"
"You're supposed to be asleep!"
"I'm sorry, Raist. I guess I'm just not tired. It's almost suppertime."
With a deep sigh, Raistlin had returned the spellbook to its place at his desk, the sand to its jar in the laboratory. He had been forced to acknowledge that perhaps Master Theobald knew what he was talking about-on this occasion, at least. Casting a magic spell required something more than words and sand. If that was all it took, Gordo would have been a mage and not slaughtering sheep, as he was now.
"The magic comes from within," Master Theobald had lectured. "It begins at the center of your being, flows outward. The words pick up the magic as it surges from your heart up into your brain and from thence into your mouth. Speaking the words, you give the magic form and substance, and thus you cast the spell. Words spoken from an empty mouth do nothing but move the lips."
And though Raistlin more than suspected Master Theobald of having copied this lecture from someone else (in fact, Raistlin was to find it several years later, in a book written by Par-Salian), the young student had been impressed by the words and had noted them down carefully in the front of his spellbook.
That speech was in his thoughts as he copied-for the hundredth time-the spell onto scrap paper, preparatory to copying the spell into his primer. A leather-bound book, the primer was given to each novice mage who had passed his initial test. The novitiate would copy into his primer every spell committed to memory. In addition, he must also know how to pronounce correctly the words of the spell and how to write it onto a scroll, and he must know and have collected any components that the spell required.
Every quarter Master Theobald tested the novitiates-there were two in his school, Raistlin and Jon Farnish-on the spells they had learned. If the students performed to the master's satisfaction, they were permitted to write the spell into their primers. Only yesterday, at the end of the spring quarter, Raistlin had taken the test on his new spell and had passed it easily. Jon Famish, by contrast, had failed, having transposed two letters in the third word. Master Theobald had given Raistlin permission to copy down the spell-the very sleep spell he had attempted to cast-into his primer. The master had sent Jon Farnish to copy the spell out two hundred times, until he could write it correctly.
Raistlin knew the sleep spell backward and forward and inside out. He could have written it upside down while standing on his head. Yet he could not make it work. He had even prayed to the gods of magic, asking for their help, as they had given him help during his elementary test. The gods were not forthcoming.
He did not doubt the gods. He doubted himself. It was some fault within him, something he was doing wrong. And so, instead of copying the spell into his primer, Raistlin was doing much the same as Jon Farnish, going over and over the words, meticulously writing down every letter until he could convince himself that he had not made a single mistake.
A shadow-a broad shadow-fell across his page.
He looked up. "Yes, Master?" he said, trying to hide his irritation at the interruption and not quite succeeding.
Raistlin had long ago realized that he was smarter than Master Theobald and more gifted in magic. He stayed in the school because there was nowhere else to go, and, as this proved, he still had much to learn. Master Theobald could cast a sleep spell.
"Do you know what time it is?" Master Theobald asked. "It is dinnertime. You should be in the common room with the other boys."
"Thank you, but I'm not hungry, Master," Raistlin said ungraciously and went back to his work.
Master Theobald frowned. A well-fed man himself, one who enjoyed his meat and ale, he could not understand someone like Raistlin, to whom food was fuel to keep his body going and nothing more.
"Nonsense, you have to eat. What are you doing that is so important it causes you to skip a meal?"
Master Theobald could see perfectly well what Raistlin was doing.
"I am working at copying this spell, Master," Raistlin said, gritting his teeth at the man's idiocy. "I do not feel ready yet to write in my primer."
Master Theobald looked down at the scraps of paper littering the desk. He picked up one, then another. "But these are adequate. Quite good, in fact."
"No, there must be something wrong!" Raistlin said impatiently. "Otherwise I could have been able to cast-"
He had not meant to say that. He bit his tongue and fell silent, glowering down at his ink-stained fingers.
"Ah," said Master Theobald, with the ghost of a smile, which, since Raistlin was not looking, he did not see. "So you have been attempting a little spellcasting, have you?"
Raistlin did not reply. If he could have cast a spell now, he would have summoned demons from the Abyss and ordered them to haul off Master Theobald.