Dark Heart

by Tina Daniell

  “You look like a good climber. Do you think you could get him?”

  Caramon puffed out his chest a bit, his hunger and tiredness fleeing in the face of her appealing gaze. He looked up at the mewing tabby again. Then the little boy hitched his pants manfully, got a good grip on one of the bottom branches, and began to haul himself upward.

  After Kitiara and Gilon had left, the master mage followed Raistlin into the small, spartan annex and bade him sit in one of the chairs. Then Morath summoned a young man, dressed in simple workman’s clothes, who took instructions that the master mage not be interrupted for the duration of the morning. The man, evidently some sort of servant, nodded and left, closing the door to the library as he did.

  From behind that door, Raist occasionally heard the muffled comings and goings of Morath’s students, who availed themselves of the library’s resources. Their conversations were whispered. Doubtless they were not anxious to disturb the master mage. Raistlin guessed that most of their studies took place in the rooms that lined the long, winding corridor.

  The room Morath and Raistlin occupied was as nondescript as could be—limestone walls, with no windows, color, or decorations. The strategy, even little Raist realized, was to minimize distractions and to focus concentration. Morath interrogated him for several hours, until well past midday. His questions seemed to be, not tricky, but open-ended and philosophical in nature. Perhaps there were no right answers.

  In any case Morath appeared every bit as interested in Raist’s reaction to the questions as he was in what might be the correct response. The master mage’s black eyes bore into the small boy relentlessly. Raistlin, who had gone without lunch, grew increasingly dizzy and hungry, but he fought to stay alert.

  “For a mere child, you speak well,” Morath said grudgingly at one point, “but let us talk some more about good and evil. A mage must study and understand both. Not only the obvious—the differences—but the similarities, as well. What is the kinship between them? How would you, Raistlin, define evil?”

  Any other six-year-old would have been out of his element in such a discussion; certainly Caramon would have scratched his head in bewilderment. But Raist was a solitary boy, physically weak and wary of playmates, and he had spent many hours alone, pondering just such matters. Especially since last year, when he had first observed and learned some rudimentary magic at the Red Moon Fair.

  At first the little boy had imagined that he would become a good wizard, battling villains and dread creatures run amok, using his mind and his abilities the same way Caramon so easily mastered athletic and fighting skills. Mages dedicated to neutrality intrigued Raist, though at this point in time he knew little enough about them. Certainly he had thought a lot about evil, as the enemy of good.

  “I think it would be a mistake to define evil too precisely or simply,” said Raistlin thoughtfully, his voice thin and tired-sounding, despite his best efforts. “But whatever else it is, it is the opposite of good, and so to know it, we must also know good.”

  “A clever and sensible reply,” said the mage tersely. “But tell me this, how would we define it in the absence of good?”

  “Well,” said Raist with a frown, “there can be no true absence of good, nor of evil really. One cannot exist without the other. They are in a kind of balance, counterpoint, with each other at all times. One might be dominant, the other dormant, but never truly absent.”

  “Can you think of no example of evil?” asked the master mage.

  “No pure example … except, of course, the gods of darkness,” the boy added hastily.

  Morath looked satisfied. “Then how do we recognize evil?” he persisted.

  “Its disguises are infinite.”

  “Yet a mage must strive to recognize and identify evil, both in himself and his magic, and as regards others.”

  “Yes,” agreed Raist. “One must study its manifest forms. More than most—” he paused and searched for the proper words “—a mage does learn to recognize evil. One who wears the white robe would identify it as anathema. A black robe would know it as an ally.”

  “And a red robe?”

  “Hmm,” said Raistlin, his voice pitifully weary. “I’m not sure. I guess I would say that a red robe ought to know it as part of himself.”

  For the past several minutes Morath’s eyes had narrowed, intrigued. Indeed, the master mage had stopped pacing and taken a seat on the other wooden chair for the first time since the hours of questioning had begun. Now he leaned forward and emitted a short, barking laugh.

  “Hah!” Morath exclaimed. “Very clever. Superficial, I should think, but exceedingly clever for a six-year-old boy!”

  Raistlin seized on the brief moment of amity to ask for a break. He was eager for Morath’s approval, but sensed he did not have it. “Please sir,” Raist asked respectfully, “may I have some water and eat my lunch now?”

  Immediately Morath’s harsh demeanor returned. He stood up briskly and moved away from the table. Then he turned, folded his arms, and glared at the small, hungry boy.

  “Mages must be able to devote hours at a time to their studies, whether they’re hungry or not,” Morath advised. “If you cannot bear up through one day of simple tests, then you are too young, too much of a child, to begin your studies.”

  Raist, sitting there all shrunken up with fatigue and hunger, his little-boy face wan and pinched, his eyes watering, refused to apologize. “If that is your answer,” he said petulantly, “then let us proceed. I assume you won’t penalize me for the mere asking.”

  In fact, Morath was a little hungry himself, though he hated to admit it. He usually broke at midday and ate a modest lunch in the company of his favorite students. But he had found himself determined to confound this little boy who had an answer to every question. Even if the answers were sometimes unusual, the master mage had to admit they were well considered. He was as impressed as he was irritated by the boy’s gravity and defiance, his self-control and refusal to knuckle under.

  “Perhaps this would be a good time to break,” Morath relented finally. “I will have a tray brought in to you, supplementing whatever you have carried with you on your trek from Solace. In the meantime, I must leave you alone and go check on my students.”

  The master mage opened the door into the library and, before leaving, hesitated and turned to Raistlin. “You have ten minutes,” he said. “No more.”

  Raistlin ate his lunch quickly, barely managing to wash it down with the cool, foamy drink brought by the young man in workman’s garb, before Morath returned.

  The master mage stood in the doorway and harrumphed, then with a gesture indicated that Raistlin should come into the library proper. Following Morath into that vast circular room with its poolbottom light and shelves of books after spending hours in the cramped annex, Raist felt revitalized and excited.

  His heart thumped wildly against his rib cage. This wondrous library, so different from anything he had known in Solace—how he longed to read all of these books, to study the ancient arts here! Raistlin gazed at the books as another child might gaze longingly at a plate of sweets.

  Morath pointed Raistlin toward a chair. He went to a shelf and picked out several tomes, three of which he set before Raist. One other, an ancient leather-bound volume, he placed next to his own chair, across from Raist.

  “Open that gilt-embossed book in front of you and turn to page twenty-five.”

  Raistlin was disappointed to see that the book in question appeared to contain basic numerical equations. Dutifully, he began to read. The minutes stretched on. Morath said nothing, merely sat across from the boy, watching him closely. When Raist peeked over the top of the pages, the master mage seemed almost to be dozing. At least his eyes were hooded.

  A discreet knock on the door interrupted Morath’s reverie. Muttering a few words under his breath, the master mage stood and bade whoever it was to enter. The door swung open, although how it operated, whether mechanically or magically, Raist could
not be sure. In any case, the boy was not supposed to be paying any attention. He was supposed to be reading, so all of his looks were furtive ones.

  A plump boy about Kitiara’s age, dressed in the gray robes of an apprentice mage, came in. Obviously one of the students, the boy seemed very much in awe of the master mage as he struggled to find his voice.

  “Master,” the boy began tentatively. “Alekno is having, er, trouble with the invisibility spell. He has been able to make his legs disappear, but unfortunately that is all. Now it seems that he cannot make them re-appear. We have tried to aid him, but cannot tell what he is doing wrong. Would you advise us?”

  “Alekno’s habitual failure to pay attention during his instruction results in just this sort of difficulty,” responded Morath snappishly. “He is fortunate not to be facing a horde of combative minotaurs or some other situation where he might really need to disappear. I am tempted to let him stay half-invisible, if only for a day or two. Teach him to listen next time.”

  The plump boy shifted uneasily on his feet, uncertain of how to respond, a plaintive look on his face.

  “Oh well,” said Morath with irritation. He rose and headed toward the door, muttering and grumbling. At the threshold he turned back toward Raist. “Continue. I expect to be back shortly.”

  As instructed, Raistlin kept going. Laboriously the boy turned the pages, reading with his finger from top to bottom, left to right, doing his best to understand and remember the tables described in the text. These included basic arithmetic and measurements, as well as sophisticated equivalents, angles and degrees, and component breakdowns. Raistlin continued reading until almost an hour had passed, and still the master mage did not return.

  All the rote mental exercises made the boy drowsy. Understanding numerical configurations would be helpful for certain spells and situations, Raist supposed, but he had to yawn as he turned the last page of the book and closed its gilt cover.

  Still there was no sign of Morath, nor any echo of noise from the other side of the library door where he had disappeared. The late afternoon sun seeping in from above was no longer so pleasant, and the light in the library had grown amber and murky. Reinforced by the silence, it was almost eerie in its effect.

  With a sigh, Raistlin reached for one of the other two books that the master mage had set aside for him, the one with a wrinkly cover and crumbly pages. Immediately he realized it was a geography tome, studded with detailed maps of the many familiar as well as obscure regions of Ansalon. There were crude climate charts, topography and elevation references, and soil descriptions, all of it painstakingly hand sketched and coded in colors.

  Although not nearly as thick as the numbers book, this one, too, was hard slogging, and Raist turned the pages ever more slowly as time went on, and still the master mage did not return. By the end of another hour, Raistlin had finished the second book. After glancing around the room, which had become latticed with shadows, Raistlin diligently reached for the third and last book in front of him.

  This one had a heavy cowhide cover that was banded with iron, and Raist had to use both hands to open it up. Inside, the vellum was very thin, its texture very fine, and upon it someone had transcribed an early history of the Silvanesti nation in tiny, elegant script. The penmanship crowded the margins, and the long, meticulous chronicle was divided into three equal and successive columns on each page.

  The bleary-eyed little boy began to read the ancient history. Raist grew interested. He knew little about the tragic history of the elven race, and there were not so many pages really. But the writing was so minuscule and the ink so faded that he had to strain his eyes against the dying light. It wasn’t long before his brave energy wilted and his head sagged down on the table. He was asleep.

  Damp, clinging mists swirled up around Raist’s chair. He was no longer in the library. Voices seemed to be whispering, just out of his hearing. Suddenly his mother appeared. “Come with me, dear,” invited Rosamun. “I will be your guide”

  The boy reached out eagerly to take her extended hand. The instant their fingers touched, however, Rosamun was transformed into a terrifying slime-covered creature that sucked Raistlin to its chest with an irresistible force. Panicked, he was enveloped in ooze. Desperately he fought against the suffocating sensation, struggling for air, gulping mouthfuls of the sickening stuff. He was drowning in slime!

  Just as suddenly it evaporated. Now Raistlin was back home, perched on his mother’s bed. He was in fact sharing her body, seeing with her eyes, breathing her tremulous breaths.

  Kitiara was getting dinner ready. Caramon was idly flipping twigs into the fireplace. Gilon came in. Only it wasn’t Gilon. This creature had horns and a huge head. It towered over Kitiara, brushing against the ceiling. A minotaur, Raist realized with a shudder.

  It stormed to Rosamun’s side. She screamed and tried to fight the beast-man off as he neatly trussed her—and Raist, in her body—in sheets. Kit and Caramon didn’t appear to care or even to notice. While Rosamun screeched in protest, the minotaur carried her under its arm to the front door and heaved her to the ground.

  Abruptly Raist was outside his mother’s body and pulling himself up by the window ledge to peer inside the cottage. He saw the minotaur and Kit nod to each other conspiratorially. Looking more closely at his older sister, Raist saw that she looked different, changed. She was covered in armor made up of shimmering blue scales. When she opened her mouth, flames shot out. Around her waist was a scabbard with the wooden sword her father had bequeathed her. Only when she drew it forth, it was wooden no longer. The solid metal gleamed in the firelight. With her fearful sword, Kit advanced on the oblivious Caramon.

  Raist clung to the window ledge, fascinated, unable to act. Finally he began pounding at the window with one arm, yelling a warning at his twin. Caramon didn’t look up as Kit raised the sword above his head. Rosamun’s shrieking could be heard behind him still. With horror, Raist watched Kit bring the sword down, slicing off Caramon’s head. The bloody thing rolled toward the window, its eyes finally gaping at Raist. Calmly, with sorrow not rancor, Caramon’s head asked, “Brother, why didn’t you warn me?”

  The words pierced Raistlin’s heart. He collapsed on the ground, sobbing.

  Raistlin jerked awake. He had fallen asleep! Flushed with humiliation, Raist’s eyes swept the room, seeing with some relief that he was still alone.

  It must be nearly suppertime, when Gilon and Kitiara would be coming back to get him. At least three hours had passed without a clue as to the whereabouts of the master mage. Where could Morath have gone for so long? And what was Raist supposed to do now?

  All was silence. The library was virtually dark now, only a pale glow of light fell from above, illuminating the center of the room, slanting westward across part of the table. Opposite from where Raist sat, near Morath’s chair, the light shone on the book that the master mage had picked out and set aside for himself.

  Eyeing that book, Raist wondered what wisdom it contained. Drumming his fingers, the little boy reached across the table and, after standing on his chair, managed to tug the book closer to himself so that he could make out the words on its cover.

  The History of the Present Up to the Moment, As Set Down by Astinus, said the auspicious lettering on the front.

  The history of the present! Raist wondered how that could be and what this unusual book might say. He wondered about it so much, he was practically on fire with curiosity. But he sat there for another ten minutes without moving in the slightest.

  Then, hearing and seeing nobody, Raistlin stood on the chair again and leaned across the table, touching the cover. He fingered the spine of the book, felt the raised lettering of its title, and caressed the crisp edge of its pages. His face had a intense, almost rapturous expression, as if he was concentrating on receiving some message through his fingertips.

  “Ahem.”

  Raist was startled by the voice behind him and whirled to see the master mage standing there, frown
ing. Raistlin had not heard the library doors open and close, or Morath come in. The master mage carried with him a flickering globe that bathed the library in dancing yellow light. He glided around to his chair and sat down, putting down the globe, then pointedly reached across to bring the Present History back to his side of the table.

  “What have you been doing?” Morath demanded.

  “Well,” began Raist uncomfortably, sliding back into his chair and looking up into Morath’s fierce black eyes staring at him. “I finished the book with all the numbers and equations in it about two hours ago, so I started to read the other two books you brought out for me, the ones about geography and elven history. I finished them, too, and then—” Raist’s voice faltered “—I think I fell asleep for a few minutes.”

  “Asleep!” Morath boomed indignantly.

  “For a few minutes,” Raist repeated softly.

  There was a long ominous silence while each waited for the other to say something else.

  “I think,” said Raist, after a long pause, “that I managed to memorize a good deal of all three books. I suppose I can answer almost any question that is taken from them. If that is the object of the task …” His voice trailed off, losing confidence under Morath’s stare.

  “No,” said Morath, cutting him off harshly. “I mean, what have you been doing with this book?” He gestured angrily, indicating the chronicle by Astinus. “This most precious volume is intended only for far-seeing eyes and deep-thinking scholars—not for students, certainly not for children. This book was not offered to you because it is mine alone.”

  Morath’s eyes stayed fixed on him, and little Raist, for once cowed, lowered his.

  “I did not open it,” said Raist apologetically.

  “You were reading it!” accused Morath.

  “I was not,” said Raist, looking up, surprised.

  “Come, come, boy. What were you doing then?” asked the master mage sarcastically. His eyes were watching Raist.