He was referring to the old gods of magic, three cousins: Solinari, Lunitari, Nuitari. Their names were all that was left of them, according to most people on Ansalon. Their names clung to their moons, to the silver moon, the red, and the supposed black moon.
Wary of public opinion, aware that they were not universally liked or trusted, the wizards took care not to become involved in religious arguments. They taught their pupils that the moons influenced magic much the way they influenced the tides. It was a physical phenomenon, nothing spiritual or mystical about it.
Yet Raistlin wondered. Had the gods truly gone from the world, leaving only their lights burning in night's window? Or were those lights glints from immortal, ever-watchful eyes?.
Master Theobald turned to the wooden shelves behind him, opened a drawer. He drew out three strips of lamb's skin, placed a strip in front of each boy. Jon Famish was taking this quite seriously now, after the master's speech. Gordo was resigned, sullen, wanting to end this and return to his mates. He was probably already concocting the lies he would tell about the master's laboratory.
Raistlin examined the small strip of lamb's skin, no longer than his forearm. The skin was soft, it had never been used, was smooth to the touch.
The master placed a quill pen and an inkpot in front of each of the three boys. Standing back, he folded his hands over his stomach and said, in solemn, sonorous tones, "You will write down on this lamb's skin the words I, Magus."
"Nothing else, Master?" asked Jon Farnish.
"Nothing else."
Gordo squirmed and bit the end of his quill. "How do you spell Magus?"
Master Theobald fixed him with a reproving stare. "That is part of the test!"
"What. what will happen if we do it right, Master?" Raistlin asked in a voice that he could not recognize as his own.
"If you have the gift, something will happen. If not, nothing," replied Master Theobald. He did not look at Raistlin as he spoke.
He wants me to fail, Raistlin understood, without quite knowing why. The master did not like him, but that wasn't the reason. Raistlin guessed that it had something to do with jealousy of his sponsor, Antimodes. The knowledge strengthened his resolve.
He picked up the quill, which was black, had come from the wing of a crow. Various types of quills were used to write various scrolls: an eagle's feather was extremely powerful, as was that of the swan. A goose quill was for everyday, ordinary writing, only to be used for magical penning in an emergency. A crow quill was useful for almost any type of magic, though some of the more fanatic White Robes objected to its color.
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.