Dark Heart

by Tina Daniell

  The trio descended along the ropeways and ramps between the vallenwoods toward one of the paths that wound through the trunks of the giant trees and to the southern outskirts of Solace. Kit, who had not helped herself to any breakfast back at the cottage, pulled a piece of black bread and cheese from her pack and began munching as she walked.

  Dropping back alongside her, Gilon spoke to Kit in a lowered voice, out of Raist’s earshot. “Though I have never been there, I judge it to be a good hour’s walk to where the master mage is said to keep his school. Will Raist be all right? Should we rest halfway? We don’t want him to be too tired once he gets there.”

  Kit eyed the slight figure walking dutifully in front of them. His curious eyes roamed the sky, the treetops, the side of the path, picking out things that intrigued him. He paid no attention to Kit and Gilon and imagined himself the bold leader of their little expedition.

  “If he looks like he’s tiring, we can take turns carrying him on our backs,” Kit said, adding under her breath, “it won’t be the first time.” Though Raistlin resembled his sister, especially his deep brown eyes, he had none of her wiry strength.

  The early morning was warm, with the songs of birds returning from their winter migrations carried on welcome breezes. Kit felt her spirits lift as she headed toward the ancient bridge that spanned Solace Stream. They soon veered off the road. Gilon knew a shortcut through the forest that lined the edge of Crystalmir Lake, one that would help them reach their destination more quickly.

  Before long, the three of them emerged from the shadows of the vallenwoods into less wooded, hilly country. Raist continued to trod ahead of Kitiara and Gilon, showing no signs that his energy was flagging. He really must be excited about this, Kit thought to herself.

  Three quarters of an hour passed with very little conversation between them. Single file, they followed a narrow, pebbly path that snaked through the tall yellow grass and wildflowers that heralded spring. Little crawling creatures scuttled across the path in front of them, and wild game flew up out of nowhere. The land was beautiful, and its natural harmony had a blissful effect on the travelers.

  Kit was daydreaming about her father when a loud declaration from Raist jolted her back to the present. Raist was skipping between Kit and Gilon, tugging at their sleeves and exclaiming as he pointed. “Look, look, there it is! The school!”

  A rocky outcropping had risen out of the contoured landscape the same way a small island seems to appear, without warning, out of the sea. A moment before, they hadn’t seen it. The glare of the sun meant they had to shade their eyes. The rocks formed a steep hill, its dimensions lost in the haze of the sun. It was bleached of color, its sides littered with limestone boulders, its top obscured from view. Kitiara had to blink to be certain of what she was seeing.

  “That’s it! That’s it! Can’t you see?” Raist demanded with obvious exasperation.

  Coming closer, Kit and Gilon saw what Raistlin meant: the pale stonework facade of an entrance so artfully blended in with its surroundings as to be almost invisible to passers-by. With such subterfuge, the master mage both ensured his school’s exclusivity and protected his students against potential acts of ill will from a local population that, like most sensible people on Krynn, viewed magic with skepticism, mistrust, or plain hostility.

  Gilon’s upturned face showed how impressed the woodcutter was with the unusual site. For his part, Raist betrayed no awe. If anything, the child wore a smug expression, as if nothing would surprise him about this place.

  The mage school was built into the hill, camouflaged by rocks and the sparse vegetation that clung to them. Parts of the edifice could be glimpsed, close up, between the boulders and scrub. Kitiara looked up and saw something that made her wonder how she had missed it before. At regular intervals, ducks and other water fowl were alighting on top of the rocky hill, which led her to think there must be some sort of concealed pond there.

  As they stopped a few yards away, they heard a low rumbling and, with amazing fluidity, the massive front door swung open. Someone had opened it without the slightest signal from them! Following Raist inside, Kit had to elbow Gilon, whose mouth was impolitely agape. The door boomed shut behind them.

  They found themselves at the head of a corridor sided with smooth alabaster that gently spiraled upward in a clockwise direction. The corridor had no obvious light source. Illumination seemed to emanate from the pale, gray stone itself. Raistlin was already walking ahead. Gilon and Kit hastened to keep up. The winding hallway was lined with iron doors, all tightly shut, but Raistlin passed them by without so much as a glance. He seemed certain of his destination.

  They continued up the spiraling corridor for ten minutes, passing twenty-seven doors by Kit’s reckoning. At last they came to the top—or at least to the end of the curious hallway. In front of them stood an impressive set of double iron doors, the black metal decorated with runes and elaborate scrollwork.

  Kit found herself holding back and drawing closer to Gilon. Her little brother had reached the doors first, but seemed reluctant to knock. He stood in front of them, leaning forward slightly, straining to perceive what waited for him beyond. It was left to Gilon, who stepped up next to his son a few seconds later, to knock forthrightly.

  Kit waited, fidgeting impatiently, no longer out of any nervousness, but because she was getting annoyed at whoever or whatever was putting them through this rigmarole. It was all quite obviously designed to intimidate visitors.

  The three of them—a roughly dressed, burly woodcutter; a young, undersized six-year-old; and this slender teenager with her dark cap of curly hair—waited with varying attitudes, but with one feeling in common, impatience. For a long time the inner door, unlike the outer, showed no response to their presence.

  Finally the iron hinges creaked and the double door swung inward. Gilon, Raist, and Kitiara stepped forward into a large circular room without any windows or lamplight. Every inch of the walls was lined with shelves, and the shelves groaned with books—hundreds of portentous, leather-bound tomes; hundreds more ordinary volumes with numerical indices; one entire wall of slim pamphlets and sheaves of neatly ordered essays; another wall of yellowed, crumbling manuscripts, stacked and tied neatly in ribbons; and rows upon rows upon more rows of diaries and journals.

  Hazy light filtered in through a translucent, domed ceiling. Not until she gazed upward and saw a pikeshead swim by outside, tailfin wiggling, did Kit realize that this room lay beneath the pond at the top of the camouflaged hill.

  An immense wooden table stood in the center of the room, a hooded figure seated behind it, waiting. The hood that shadowed his face was the color of the bleached boulders strewn over his hill, which as any youngster on Krynn knew, was a sign that the master mage was aligned with the forces of good.

  Abruptly the mage slipped off his hood, revealing steel gray, close-cropped hair and beard. Black eyes glinted at the visitors.

  “I am Morath. I ought to bid you welcome to my humble repository of learning, except that you have arrived without invitation and—” here Morath sighed, wearily flicking one of his hands “—I have no idle time to waste on uninvited guests. So instead I bid you state your business and go.”

  Gilon squared his shoulders and stepped forward.

  “If you please, sir, I am Gilon Majere of nearby Solace. I wish to enter my son, Raistlin Majere, in your school of magic, whose reputation is well known in this vicinity. I know he is rather young, but he has already shown both interest and aptitude for your art. When he was not quite five, he was able to learn and copy the tricks a traveling magician performed at the Red Moon Fair.”

  Gilon’s confidence had soared as he gave his little speech. By the end, he was fairly glowing with fatherly enthusiasm.

  “Well!” With noticeable sarcasm, Morath hurled the word in Gilon’s direction, ignoring the small child standing near his father. “Copied some roving trickster, did he? A prodigy, is he? No, I think not. I beg to differ. Mere sleigh
t of hand has nothing to do with true magic. A ready pupil would know that.”

  The master mage had turned his gaze on Raistlin’s pale, oval face. Unflinching, Raist returned the stare. Kit admired her little brother’s temerity.

  Raistlin had been chattering about magic off and on over the past year, asking questions Kit often was unable to answer. He had brought the subject up with anyone within earshot, even his mother. Kit knew Raistlin felt proud of the simple illusions he had managed to pick up. She knew that he was fascinated by the possibilities and power of greater magic. And she despised this mage for treating him like a clod.

  As she had once fought to save his life as a newborn, now Kit concentrated on mentally supporting her little brother in this uneven contest of wills. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought she detected a hint of curiosity in Morath’s stern expression as Raist refused to back down and continued to meet his piercing gaze.

  “Even if it were proof of anything,” Morath went on matter-of-factly, “I require all applicants to be at least eight years of age and to be able to read difficult and obscure texts with ease. This is not a school for reading fundamentals. This boy is too small. Too young. He would lag behind the others, some of whom are already, in many ways, young men.”

  Gilon was about to respond, when Raistlin piped up in his own defense. “I can read,” he said simply. “I can read anything.”

  Morath looked annoyed. He rose from his seat and strode to a nearby shelf, pausing for a moment before pulling out one of the larger, more auspicious tomes. He handed it to Raistlin, who staggered briefly under its weight. The six-year-old sat down on the floor, crosslegged, with the book straddling his lap. Then he looked up at the master mage for instructions.

  “Turn to the third chapter,” Morath commanded, “and start reading the fourth paragraph down. Proper enunciation, please.”

  With some difficulty, Raistlin opened the musty book and turned to its lengthy table of contents. Completely absorbed in his task, he ran his finger down the table, located the chapter’s page number, and turned to it. Again he used his finger to find the paragraph, then began reading in his reedy voice.

  “A mage turns his body into a conductor of energy streams and currents from all zones of existence. Through correct incantations, he is able to draw in certain forces or combination of forces, and then to reshape and redirect them as he wishes …”

  Morath watched Raist intently. Kit thought the master mage was contriving to conceal his reaction. The ranks of mages were thin enough these days; she imagined he could ill afford to turn away any pupil. Yet magic-users were notoriously arrogant and did not act out of necessity or logic. Morath’s criteria would have to be met. Resolutely, Raist read on.

  “That’s enough,” Morath said curtly, snatching the book out of the boys hands and replacing it on the shelf.

  Interrupted in midsentence, Raist looked up, startled. His eyes were wide with irritation, Kit could tell. She knew her lookalike eyes betrayed the same reaction. Gilon was off to one side, his big hands dangling awkwardly at his sides, silent and unsure as to how to act.

  Morath circled the wide room, his face fraught with annoyance. He fingered certain books as he brushed up against the shelves. Deep in concentration, he virtually ignored the three visitors who tensely awaited his next move. Kit and Gilon looked at each other uncertainly.

  The filtered sunlight from above bathed the master mage in a golden glow as he passed Kit. For a moment, before his stern features came under shadow again, Kit had a less fearsome impression of Morath.

  “Answer me this,” the master mage said suddenly, turning to address Raistlin who was still sitting crosslegged on the floor. Raist stood expectantly. “What do you suppose is the nickname of this place, a name I am not supposed to know but which is used, familiarly, by all the aspiring mages behind my back?

  A sliver of a smile, not altogether unfriendly in its effect, played on Morath’s lips as he bent in Raistlin’s direction.

  “Why it’s the mage school, that’s all,” blurted out Gilon.

  Kitiara shot her stepfather a withering glance. Gilon’s face wilted, realizing he had blundered.

  “No, no,” said Morath contemptuously. “Let the boy answer.”

  A moment of silence followed, as Morath’s eyes met Raistlin’s. Again, the little boy did not flinch, but withstood the master mage’s direct gaze.

  “There’s nothing fancy about it, nothing secret,” said Morath with mock congeniality. “But only those who are privileged to study here learn of it. Concentrate, boy. Take a guess. Or do you give up?”

  Old Hilltop, Kitiara guessed to herself.

  Raistlin took his time before responding. “Hilltop would be the obvious choice,” he said finally, speaking slowly, “and—”

  “Wrong! Wrong!” cackled Morath, straightening up. He was a trifle obvious in his glee.

  “You didn’t let me finish!” snapped Raistlin, raising his voice most disrespectfully. Gilon winced. Kitiara had to repress a smile.

  “And that is why, I was saying, they probably invented some name like Poolbottom or Drywater. I don’t see why it’s important, or much of a test,” Raist finished sulkily.

  “It’s not important!” Morath snapped back, raising his voice and baring his teeth. “I didn’t say it was important!”

  The master mage swirled his robe and retreated to the double iron doors with an angry flourish. “You may leave now,” he commanded.

  Their faces glum, the three trooped toward the entrance, but Morath stepped in front of Raist, who was last, blocking his movement.

  “Not you,” he said decisively. When the others looked at him for some explanation, Morath said with obvious pique, “It is Poolbottom. Poolbottom! Stupid name. If a six-year-old can guess it, then it may as well be Dungdeep!”

  With a shrug, the master mage yanked a pullcord that hung next to the doors. One of the massive bookshelves swung open like a sluice gate to reveal an annex tucked behind it, rectangular and sparsely furnished with a modest table and two ordinary chairs. Paper and writing implements rested on the table, along with a couple of books.

  Morath turned Raistlin around and gave him a push toward the small interior room. He turned back to Gilon and Kit, who were boggle-eyed.

  “I need to conduct a more detailed examination,” Morath announced authoritatively. “Return at dusk.” Unceremoniously, the master mage slammed the double doors in their faces.

  Kit was fuming. “Who does that gully dwarf of a wizard think he is? I don’t think we should leave Raist here.”

  But most of this was muttered helplessly, for Gilon had firmly grasped his stepdaughter by the arm and steered her down the winding corridor and out of the mage school called Poolbottom at a rapid pace.

  “It will be a good thing for Raistlin to learn this ancient art,” Gilon said gently, letting go of her outside. “It means a lot to him. To that end we can afford to ignore Morath’s inhospitality. Let’s use this time to visit the fair back in Solace.”

  Kit glared around at nothing in particular before shrugging. In truth, spending half a day on her own would be a treat. Her mood started to lift the minute she put one foot in front of the other, walking toward Solace and this year’s Red Moon Fair.

  At a small rise, she paused and turned back to look at the mage school. She was not surprised that she could barely make out the shape of the white, rocky hill, which was almost invisible under the glare of the late morning sun.

  Kit looked at Gilon, standing alongside her, not speaking. He was not at all like her real father. Despite that, and despite the fact she had no respect for woodcutting and no liking for the humdrum life Gilon lived, Kit appreciated her stepfather’s solicitude for the twins. And she appreciated the fact that he had never tried to boss her around. Gilon was not, when all was said and done, entirely stupid.

  Sighing deeply, Kit said, in pinched tones that perfectly mimicked the mage’s, “Poolbottom! Might as well be Dungdeep!�
��

  Kit turned her roguish grin on Gilon, and they both started laughing.

  The day was perfect. The outlines of trees stripped bare by the winter winds were already feathered with a faint, pure green. Kitiara and Gilon kept a companionable silence as they headed for the fairgrounds on the north edge of Solace. The sound reached them first, like the energetic hum of some elaborate gnome creation. Then they topped the crest of a hill and saw the brightly colored flags and tents.

  The festival grounds started just off the road about a mile beyond the foot of the hill where they stood. It spread out from there like a small town, with grassy promenades lined with tents and booths instead of houses. Scattered throughout were small clearings where the various demonstrations and entertainments took place.

  As she and Gilon started down the road, Kit scanned the crowd approaching the grounds, ever hopeful that she would spot a dark, curly-haired man who stood a head taller than most, and who, when he saw his daughter after all these years, would beam with paternal pride.

  Instead, she spied a black-robed mage gliding through the throng, easy enough to spot given the way people made way for him. She saw a kender family, the father puzzling over a map, the mother watching her little girl with pride. Kit smiled to herself as she observed the little one, who was jumping up and down and clapping her hands at every new sight, picking up stones, pieces of paper—and a shiny bauble here and there, whether or not it was somebody else’s property.

  Complex, savory smells wafted from several nearby booths. It was not yet midday, but the early morning trek had left Kit with a gnawing hunger. Her growling stomach distracted her from the sights and sounds. When she stopped to search her pack for any leftover crumbs of bread or cheese, Kit realized Gilon was no longer at her side. A minute later, he reappeared, carrying two steaming bowls of goat meat stew.

  “I thought you might be hungry,” Gilon said simply, handing her a bowl. Kit smiled at him in thanks, and they made their way out of the stream of people to a bench that sat in the shade of an oak tree.