The young woman put her brown hands on the table and leaned over it. Antimodes was now starting to be truly angered by this intrusion. He shifted his attention back to her, noting as he did so—he would have been less than human if he had not noticed—the curve of her full breasts beneath the leather vest.
“I know someone who wants to become a wizard,” she said. Her voice was serious and intense. “I want to help him, but I don’t know how. I don’t know what to do.” Her hand lifted in a gesture of frustration. “Where do I go? Who do I talk to? You can tell me.”
If the inn had suddenly shifted in its branches and dumped Antimodes out the window, he could not have been more astonished. This was highly irregular! This simply wasn’t done! There were proper channels.…
“My dear young woman,” he began.
“Please.” Kitiara leaned nearer.
Her eyes were liquid brown, framed by long, black, thick lashes. Her eyebrows were dark and delicately arched to frame the eyes. Her skin was tanned by the sun; she’d led an outdoor life. She was well muscled, lithe, and had grown through the awkwardness of girlhood to attain the grace, not of a woman, but of a stalking cat. She drew him to her, and he went willingly, though he was old enough and experienced enough to know that she would not permit him to come too close. She would allow few men to warm themselves at her inner fire, and the gods help those who did.
“Kitiara, leave the gentleman to his dinner.” Otik touched the girl’s arm.
Kitiara rounded on him. She did not speak, she merely looked at him. Otik shrank back.
“It is all right, Master Sandath.” Antimodes was quick to intervene. He was fond of Otik and did not want to cause the innkeeper trouble. The dwarf, who had finished his dinner, was now taking an interest, as were two of the barmaids. “The young … um … lady and I have some business to transact. Please, be seated, mistress.”
He rose slightly and made a bow. The young woman slid into the chair opposite. The barmaid whisked over to clear the plates—and to try to satisfy her curiosity.
“Will there be anything else?” she asked Antimodes.
He looked politely at his young guest. “Will you have something?”
“No, thanks,” said Kitiara shortly. “Be about your business, Rita. If we need anything, we’ll call.”
The barmaid, offended, flounced off. Otik cast Antimodes a helpless, apologizing glance. Antimodes smiled, to indicate he wasn’t the least concerned, and Otik, with a shrug of his fat shoulders and, wringing his pudgy hands, walked distractedly away. Fortunately the arrival of additional guests gave the innkeeper something to do.
Kitiara settled down to business with a serious intensity that drew Antimodes’s approval.
“Who is this person?” he asked.
“My little brother. Half-brother,” she amended as an afterthought.
Antimodes recalled the scathing look she’d given Otik when he mentioned her mother. No love lost there, the archmage guessed.
“How old is the child?”
“Six.”
“And how do you know he wants to study magic?” Antimodes asked. He thought he knew the answer. He’d heard it often.
He loves to dress up and play wizard. He’s so cute. You should see him toss dust into the air and pretend he’s casting a spell. Of course, we assume it’s a stage he’s going through. We don’t really approve. No offense, sir, but it’s not the sort of life we had in mind for our boy. Now, if you could talk to him and tell him how difficult …
“He does tricks,” said the girl.
“Tricks?” Antimodes frowned. “What sort of tricks?”
“You know. Tricks. He can pull a coin out of your nose. He can throw a rock into the air and make it disappear. He can cut a scarf in two with a knife and give it back good as new.”
“Sleight-of-hand,” said Antimodes. “You realize, of course, that this is not magic.”
“Of course!” Kitiara scoffed. “What do you think I am? Some yokel? My father—my real father—took me to see a battle once, and there was a wizard who did some true magic. War magic. My father’s a Solamnic knight,” she added with naive pride that made her suddenly seem a little girl.
Antimodes didn’t believe her, at least the part about her father being a Solamnic knight. What would the daughter of a Solamnic knight be doing running around like a street urchin in Solace? He could well believe that this tomboy was interested in military matters. More than once, her right hand had rested on her left hip, as if she were either accustomed to wearing a sword or accustomed to pretending that she wore one.
Her gaze went past Antimodes, out the window, and kept going. In that gaze was yearning, longing for distant lands, for adventure, for an end to the boredom that was probably about to stifle her. He was not surprised when she said, “Look, sir, I’m going to be leaving here sometime soon, and my little brothers will have to fend for themselves when I’m gone.
“Caramon will be all right,” Kitiara continued, still gazing out at the smoky hills and the distant blue water. “He’s got the makings of a true warrior. I’ve taught him all I know, and the rest he’ll pick up as he goes along.”
She might have been a grizzled veteran, speaking of a new recruit, rather than a thirteen-year-old girl talking of a little snot-nosed kid. Antimodes almost laughed, but she was so serious, so earnest, that instead he found himself watching and listening to her with fascination.
“But I worry about Raistlin,” Kitiara said, her brows drawing together in puzzlement. “He’s not like the others. He’s not like me. I don’t understand him. I’ve tried to teach him to fight, but he’s sickly. He can’t keep up with the other children. He gets tired easily and he runs out of breath.”
Her gaze shifted to Antimodes. “I have to leave,” she said for the second time. “But before I go, I want to know that Raistlin is going to be able to take care of himself, that he’ll have some way to earn his living. I’ve been thinking that if he could study to be a wizard, then I wouldn’t have to worry.”
“How old … how old did you say this boy was?” Antimodes asked.
“Six,” said Kitiara.
“But … what about his parents? Your parents? Surely they …”
He stopped because the young woman was no longer listening to him. She was wearing that look of extreme patience young people put on when their elders are being particularly tedious and boring. Before Antimodes could finish, she had twisted to her feet.
“I’ll go find him. You should meet him.”
“My dear …” Antimodes started to protest. He had enjoyed his conversation with this interesting and attractive young person, but the thought of entertaining a six-year-old was extremely unwelcome.
The girl ignored his protests. She was out the door of the inn before he could stop her. He saw her running lightly down the stairs, rudely shoving or bumping into anyone who stood in her way.
Antimodes was in a quandary. He didn’t want to have this child thrust upon him. Now that she was gone, he didn’t want to have anything more to do with the young woman. She had unsettled him, given him an uneasy feeling, like the aftereffects of too much wine. It had been fine going down, but now he had a headache.
Antimodes called for his bill. He would beat a hasty retreat to his room, though he realized with annoyance that he would be held a virtual prisoner there during the rest of his stay. Looking up, he saw the dwarf, whose name he recalled was Flint, looking back.
The dwarf had a smile on his face.
Most likely Flint was not thinking at all about Antimodes. The dwarf may have been smiling to himself over the delicious meal he had just enjoyed, or he may have been smiling at the taste of the ale, or just smiling over the pleasantness of the world in general. But Antimodes, with his customary self-importance, decided that Flint was smirking at him and the fact that he, a powerful wizard, was going to run away from two children.
Antimodes determined then and there that he would not give the dwarf any such satisfac
tion. The archmage would not be driven out of this pleasant common room. He would remain, rid himself of the girl, deal quickly with the child, and that would be an end of it.
“Perhaps you would care to join me, sir,” Antimodes said to the dwarf.
Flint glowered and flushed red and ducked his head into his ale. He muttered something about rather having his beard boiled before he’d share a table with a wizard.
Antimodes smiled coldly to himself. Dwarves were notorious for their distrust and dislike of wielders of magic. The archmage was now certain that the dwarf would leave him alone. Indeed, Flint quaffed his ale in a hurry and, tossing a coin on the table, gave Antimodes a curt nod and stumped out of the inn.
And here, on the dwarf’s heels, came the girl, hauling along not one child but two.
Antimodes sighed and ordered a glass of Otik’s finest two-year old mead. He had a feeling he was going to need something potent.
3
THE ENCOUNTER WAS LIKELY TO PROVE MORE UNPLEASANT THAN Antimodes had feared. One of the boys, the one Antimodes assumed was the elder, was an attractive child, or would have been had he not been so extremely dirty. He was sturdily built, with thick arms and legs, had a genial, open face and a gap-toothed smile, and he regarded Antimodes with friendly interest and curiosity, not in the least intimidated by the well-dressed stranger.
“Hullo, sir. Are you a wizard? Kit says you’re a wizard. Could you do some sort of trick? My twin can do tricks. Would you like to see him? Raist, do the one where you take the coin out of your nose and—”
“Shut up, Caramon,” said the other child in a soft voice, adding, with a frowning glance, “You’re being foolish.”
The boy took this good-naturedly. He chuckled and shrugged, but he kept quiet. Antimodes was startled to hear the two were twins. He examined the other boy, the one who did tricks. This child was not in the least attractive, being thin as a wraith, grubby, and shabbily dressed, with bare legs and bare feet and the peculiar and distasteful odor that only small and sweaty children emit. His brown hair was long, matted, and needed washing.
Antimodes regarded both children intently, and made a few deductions.
No loving mother doted over these boys. No loving hands combed that tangled hair, no loving tongue scolded them to wash behind their ears. They did not have the whipped and hangdog air of beaten children, but they were certainly neglected.
“What is your name?” Antimodes asked.
“Raistlin,” replied the boy.
He had one mark in his favor. He looked directly at Antimodes while speaking. The one thing Antimodes detested most about small children was their habit of staring down at their feet or the floor or looking anywhere except at him, as though they expected him to pounce on them and eat them. This boy kept his pale blue eyes level with those of the adult, held them fixed and unwavering on the archmage.
These blue eyes gave nothing, expected nothing. They held too much knowledge. They had seen too much in their six years—too much sorrow, too much pain. They had looked beneath the bed and discovered that there really were monsters lurking in the shadows.
So, young man, I bet you’d like to be a mage when you grow up!
That was Antimodes’s standard, banal line in these circumstances. He had just sense enough not to say it. Not to say it to those knowing eyes.
The archmage felt a tingling at the back of his neck. He recognized it—the touch of the fingers of the god.
Tamping down his excitement, Antimodes spoke to the older sister. “I’d like to talk to your brother alone. Perhaps you and his twin could—”
“Sure,” said Kitiara immediately. “C’mon, Caramon.”
“Not without Raistlin,” Caramon said promptly.
“Come on, Caramon!” Kitiara repeated impatiently. Grasping him by the arm, she gave him a yank.
Even then, the boy held back from his sister’s strong and impatient tug. Caramon was a solid child. It seemed unlikely that his sister would be able to budge him without resorting to a block and tackle. He looked at Antimodes.
“We’re twins, sir. We do everything together.”
Antimodes glanced at the weaker twin to see how he was taking this. Raistlin’s cheeks were faintly flushed; he was embarrassed, but he seemed also smugly pleased. Antimodes felt a slight chill. The boy’s pleasure in his brother’s show of loyalty and affection was not that of one sibling’s pleasure in the love of another. It was more like the pleasure a man takes in exhibiting the talents of a well-loved dog.
“Go on, Caramon,” Raistlin said. “Perhaps he’ll teach me some new tricks. I’ll show them to you after supper tonight.”
Caramon looked uncertain. Raistlin cast his brother a glance from beneath the thatch of lank, uncombed hair. That glance was an order. Caramon lowered his eyes, then, suddenly cheerful again, he grabbed hold of his sister’s hand.
“I hear Sturm’s found a badger hole. He’s going to try to whistle the badger out. Do you think he can do it, Kit?”
“What do I care?” she asked crossly, Walking off, she smacked Caramon a blow on the back of his head. “Next time do as I tell you. Do you hear me? What kind of soldier are you going to make if you don’t know how to obey my orders?”
“I’ll obey orders, Kit,” said Caramon, wincing and rubbing his scalp. “But you told me to leave Raistlin. You know I’ve got to watch out for him.”
Antimodes heard their voices arguing all the way down the stairs.
He looked back at the boy. “Please sit down,” he said.
Silently Raistlin slid into the chair opposite the mage. He was small for his age, his feet did not reach the floor. He sat perfectly still. He didn’t fidget or jitter. He didn’t swing his legs or kick at the legs of the chair. He clasped his hands together on the table and stared at Antimodes.
“Would you like something to eat or drink? As my guest, of course,” Antimodes added.
Raistlin shook his head. Though the child was filthy and dressed like a beggar, he wasn’t starving, Certainly his twin appeared well fed. Someone saw to it that they had food on the table. As for the boy’s excessive thinness, Antimodes guessed that it was the result of a fire burning deep down in the inner recesses of the child’s being, a fire that consumed food before it could nourish the body, a fire that left the child with a perpetual hunger he did not yet understand.
Again Antimodes felt the sanctifying touch of the god.
“Your sister tells me, Raistlin, that you would like to go to school to study to be a mage,” Antimodes began, by way of introducing the topic.
Raistlin hesitated a moment, then said, “Yes, I suppose so.”
“You suppose so?” Antimodes repeated sharply, disappointed. “Don’t you know what you want?”
“I never thought about it,” Raistlin replied, shrugging his thin shoulders in a gesture remarkably similar to that of his more robust twin. “About going to school, I mean. I didn’t even know there were schools to study magic. I just thought magic was a … a”—he searched for the phrase—“a part of you. Like eyes or toes.”
The fingers of the god hammered on Antimodes’s soul. But he needed more information. He had to be sure.
“Tell me, Raistlin, is anyone in your family a mage? I’m not prying,” Antimodes explained, seeing a pained expression contort the child’s face. “It’s just that we’ve found that the art is most often transmitted through the blood.”
Raistlin licked his lips. His gaze dropped, fixed on his hands. The fingers, slender and agile for one so young, curled inward. “My mother,” he said in a flat voice. “She sees things. Things far away. She sees other parts of the world. She watches what the elves are doing and the dwarves beneath the mountain.”
“She’s a seer,” said Antimodes.
Raistlin shrugged again. “Most people think she’s crazy.” He lifted his gaze in defiance, ready to defend his mother. When he found Antimodes regarding him with sympathy, the boy relaxed and the words flowed out, as if a vein we
re cut open.
“She forgets to eat sometimes. Well, not forgets exactly. It’s like she’s eating somewhere else. And she doesn’t do work around the house, but that’s because she’s not really in the house. She’s visiting wonderful places, seeing wonderful, beautiful things. I know,” Raistlin continued, “because when she comes back, she’s sad. As if she didn’t want to come back. She looks at us like she doesn’t know us sometimes.”
“Does she talk about what she’s seen?” Antimodes asked gently.
“To me, a little,” the boy answered. “But not much. It makes my father unhappy, and my sister … well, you’ve seen Kit. She doesn’t have any patience with what she calls Mother’s ‘fits.’ So I can’t blame Mother for leaving us,” Raistlin continued, his voice so soft that Antimodes had to lean forward to hear the child. “I’d go with her if I could. And we’d never come back here. Never.”
Antimodes sipped his drink, using the mead as an excuse to keep silent until he had regained control of his anger. It was an old story. one he’d seen time and again. This poor woman was no different from countless others. She had been born with the art, but her talent was denied, probably ridiculed, certainly discouraged by family members who thought all magic-users were demon spawn. Instead of receiving the training and discipline that would have taught her how to use the art to her benefit and that of others, she was stifled, smothered. What had been a gift had become a curse. If she were not already insane, she soon would be.
There was no longer a chance to save her. There was yet a chance to save her son. “What work does your father do?” Antimodes asked.
“He’s a woodcutter,” Raistlin answered. Now that they had shifted topics, he was more at ease. His hands flattened on the table. “He’s big, like Caramon. My father works really hard. We don’t see him much.” The child didn’t appear overly distressed by this fact.
He was silent a moment, then said, his brow furrowed with the seriousness of his thought process, “This school. It isn’t far away, is it? I mean, I wouldn’t like to leave Mother for very long. And then there’s Caramon. Like he said, we’re twins. We take care of each other.”
The Soulforge Page 3