The Soulforge

by Margaret Weis

  “Why, yes, brother! She is our most holy priestess. It is she who imparts to us the will of Belzor. Do you know her?”

  “Only by reputation,” said Raistlin respectfully.

  “It is sad that you are a professed user of magic, brother. Otherwise I could invite you inside the temple to witness the ceremony of the Miracle. Priestess Judith will be summoning Belzor to appear among us this very night. And she will be speaking to the Blessed of Belzor who have already passed over.”

  “I would like to see this,” said Raistlin.

  “Alas, brother. Mages are not permitted to witness the Miracle. Forgive me for saying this, brother, but Belzor finds your evil ways offensive.”

  “I’m not a mage,” said Kit, with a charming smile for the young priest. “Could I come to the temple?”

  “Certainly! All the rest of you are welcome. You will see wonderful miracles performed, miracles that will astound you, erase your doubts, and make you believe in Belzor with all your heart and soul.”

  “Thanks,” said Kit. “I’ll be there.”

  The priest solemnly pronounced the blessing of Belzor on them all, then took his leave, moving off to question the occupants of another arriving wagon.

  Flint snorted in disdain, dusted the blessing off his clothes. “I don’t need the good opinion of any god who thinks well of snakes. And you, lad. I admit that I don’t much take to magic—no true dwarf does—but it seems to me that you’re a damn sight better off being a wizard than a follower of Belzor.”

  “I agree with you, Flint,” Raistlin said gravely. This was not the time to remind the dwarf of his many harangues against magic in all its shapes and forms. “But it will not hurt me to talk to this priest and find out what this worship of Belzor entails. Perhaps Belzor is one of the true gods for which we have all been searching. I would like very much to see these miracles of which they speak”

  “Yes, I’m interested in this Belzor myself,” said Kitiara. “I think I’ll go to the temple tonight. You could come, too, little brother. All you’d have to do is change clothes and likely they’d never recognize you.”

  “You’re not going to make me go with you, are you?” Caramon asked uneasily. “No disrespect to Belzor, but I’ve heard the taverns of Haven are real lively, particularly during fair time, and—”

  “No, my brother,” Raistlin said curtly. “You do not need to come.”

  “None of the rest of you need to come,” Kit said. “Raist and I are the spiritual members of this family.”

  “Well, I think you’re the crazy members of the family,” Caramon stated. “Our first night in Haven, and you want to go visit a temple. And what was this business about some priestess named Judith?” He stopped, blinked. “Judith,” he repeated, frowning. “Oh.” He looked hard at his brother and at Kit. “I’m going.”

  “I’m going, too!” said Tas. “Maybe I’ll get to see those snakes again, not to mention talking to those who have already passed over. What does that mean? What did they pass over? The roof?”

  “I believe he means that they talk to the dead,” Raistlin explained.

  Tas’s eyes widened. “I’ve never talked to dead people before. Do you suppose they’ll let me speak to Uncle Trapspringer? Not that we’re all that sure he’s really dead, mind you. His funeral was sort of confused. The body was there one minute and gone the next. Uncle Trapspringer tended to be a bit absentminded when he got old, and some said maybe he just forgot that he was dead and wandered off. Or maybe he tried being dead and didn’t like it, so he came back to life. Or it could be that the undertaker misplaced him. Anyhow, this would be one way to find out the truth.”

  “That settles it!” Flint grunted. “I’m not going anywhere near this Temple! It’s bad enough talking to a live kender, let alone a dead one.”

  “I will go,” said Sturm. “It is my duty to go. If they are performing miracles in the name of Belzor, I should bring such news to the knighthood.”

  “I’ll go,” said Tanis, but that was understood, since Kitiara was going.

  “You’re all daft” was Flint’s opinion as the wagon joined the rest of those headed for the fairgrounds.

  “It looks like we’re not going to have quite as much fun as we thought,” Kit observed to Raistlin in an undertone, with a glance in Tanis’s direction.

  Raistlin paid small attention to her, however. He was keeping a watch for the Herbalists Street, where, according to Master Theobald, the mageware shop was located.

  11

  THE STREETS OF HAVEN WERE NOT NAMED AT THIS TIME, although this was one of the civic improvements currently under consideration, particularly after some adventurer had mentioned that the Palanthians not only named their streets but also erected signposts with the names written on them for the benefit of the confused traveler. Travelers to Haven were rarely confused; if you were tall enough, you could see from one end of the village to the other. However, the High Sheriff of Haven thought signposts an excellent idea and resolved to institute them.

  Many of the roads in Haven already had names, logical names that had to do with the nature of the goods sold along that road, as in Market Street, Mill Street, Blade Street. Other names had to do with the nature of the road itself, such as Crooked Street or Three Forks, while still others were named after the families who lived on them. Herbalists Street was easy to find, more with the nose than the eyes.

  Scents of rosemary, lavender, sage, and cinnamon drifted on the air, making a pleasant contrast to the strong smell of horse dung in the street. The merchant’s stalls and shops of Herbalists Street were marked by bunches of dried plants hanging upside down in the sunshine. Baskets of seeds and dried leaves were arranged artfully along the roadside to tempt passersby into making purchases.

  Raistlin asked Tanis to halt the wagon. “There are herbs here that I do not grow, some of which I am not familiar with. I would like to replenish my own supplies, as well as discuss their uses.”

  Tanis told Raistlin how to find Flint’s place on the fairgrounds and bade him have fun. Raistlin jumped down from the wagon. Caramon followed, as a matter of course. Tasslehoff was in an agony of indecision, trying to decide whether to go with Raistlin or stay with Flint. Flint and the fairgrounds won out, mainly because, having peered up this street, the kender could see nothing except plants, and while plants were interesting, they just didn’t compare to the wonders he knew awaited him at the fairgrounds.

  Raistlin would have never permitted the kender to accompany him, but Tas’s decision spared him an argument. He was not certain what to do with Caramon, however. Raistlin had planned to visit the mageware shop alone and in secret. He had told no one that he intended to go to the shop. He had told no one what he hoped to purchase. His instinct was to keep his secret, order his brother to go with Flint.

  Raistlin rarely discussed his arcane art with his brother, never with his friends. He had not, since the days of his youth—days that he looked back upon and blushed over in shame—flaunted or openly displayed his magical skills.

  He was well aware that his magic made some people nervous and uneasy. As well it should. Magic gave him a power over people, a power in which he reveled. He was wise enough to realize, however, that such power would be diminished if he used it repeatedly. Even magic becomes ordinary if used every day.

  Raistlin’s views toward people had changed over the years. Once he had sought to be loved and admired, much as his brother was loved and admired. Now, as Raistlin had come to understand himself, he faced the fact that he would never win the type of regard given his twin. In the house of Caramon’s soul, the door stood always wide open, the window shutters were flung wide, the sun shone daily. anyone was welcome. There was not much furniture in Caramon’s house. Visitors could see into every corner.

  The house of Raistlin’s soul was far different. The door was kept barred, opened only a crack to visitors, and then only a very few were permitted to cross the threshold. Once there, they were not allowed to come mu
ch farther. His windows were shut and shuttered. Here and there a candle gleamed, a warm spot in the darkness. His house was filled with furniture and objects strange and wonderful, but it was not messy or cluttered. He could instantly lay his hand on whatever was needed. Visitors could not find his corners, much less pry into them. Small wonder they never liked to stay long, were reluctant to return.

  “Where are we going?” Caramon asked.

  It was on the tip of Raistlin’s tongue to order his brother back into the wagon. He rethought the matter, however. Without responding, he set off at a rapid walk down the street, leaving Caramon to stand flat-footed in the middle of the road.

  “It is only common sense that he accompanies me,” Raistlin said to himself. “I am a stranger in a strange town. I have no protection that I am willing to use, except under the most dire circumstances. I require Caramon’s aid now as I will require it in the future. If I do become a war mage, as I intend, I will need to learn to fight at his side. I might as well get used to having him around.”

  The latter was said with something of a sigh, especially when Caramon came clomping up alongside, raising a great cloud of dust and demanding to know again where they were going, what they were looking for, and hinting that they could stop in a tavern along the way.

  Raistlin halted. He turned to face his brother with a suddenness that caused Caramon to stumble backward in order not to step on his twin.

  “Listen to me, Caramon. Listen to what I have to say and do not forget it.” Raistlin’s tone was hard, stern, and he had the satisfaction of seeing it hit Caramon like a slap in the face. “I am going to a certain place to meet a certain person and acquire certain merchandise. I am permitting you to accompany me because we are young and will consequently be taken for easy marks. But know this, my brother. What I do and what I say and what I buy are private, secret, known only to myself and to you. You will mention nothing of this to Tanis or Flint or Kitiara or Sturm or anyone else. You will say nothing of where we’ve been, who I’ve seen, what I’ve said or done. You must promise me this, Caramon.”

  “But they’ll want to know. They’ll ask questions. What do I say?” Caramon was clearly unhappy. “I don’t like keeping secrets, Raist.”

  “Then you do not belong with me. Go back!” Raistlin said coldly and waved his hand. “Go back to your friends. I have no need of you.”

  “Yes, you do, Raist,” Caramon said. “You know you do.”

  Raistlin paused. His steady gaze caught his brother’s and held it. This was the decisive moment, the moment on which their future depended.

  “Then you must make a choice, my brother. You must either pledge yourself to me or return to your friends.” Raistlin held up his hand, halting his brother’s quick answer. “Think about it, Caramon. If you remain with me, you must trust me completely, obey me implicitly, ask no questions, keep my secrets far better than you keep your own. Well, which will it be?”

  Caramon didn’t hesitate. “I’m with you, Raist,” he said simply. “You’re my twin brother. We belong together. It was meant to be this way.”

  “Perhaps,” Raistlin said with a bitter smile. If that were true, he wondered very much who meant it and why. He’d like to have a talk with them someday.

  “Come along then, my brother. Follow me.”

  According to Master Theobald, the mageware shop was located at the very end of Herbalists Street, on the left-hand side as you faced the north. Standing at some distance from the rest of the shops and dwellings, it was tucked back by itself amid a grove of oak trees.

  Theobald had described it. “The shop is located on the lower floor of the house, living quarters above. It is difficult to see from the road. Oak trees surround it, as does a large walled-in garden. You will see the sign outside, however—a wooden board painted with an eye in colors of red, black, and white.

  “I’ve never had any business there myself. I acquire everything I need from the Tower at Wayreth, you know,” Master Theobald had added, with a sniff. “However, I’m sure Lemuel has some small items that mages of low rank might find valuable.”

  If Raistlin had learned nothing else from Theobald, he had learned to hold his tongue. He swallowed the caustic retort he would have once made, thanked the master politely, and was rewarded with the following bit of information, which might prove of inestimable value.

  “I’ve heard that Lemuel has an interest in weeds the same as you,” Theobald said. “You two should get along well.”

  Consequently Raistlin had brought with him a couple of rare species of plants he’d discovered, dug up, and carried home, and now had seedlings to share. He hoped in this way to curry Lemuel’s favor, and if the books Raistlin wanted proved beyond his means, perhaps he might persuade their owner to lower the price.

  The twins walked the length of Herbalists Street; Caramon taking his new duties and responsibilities with such extreme seriousness that he nearly tripped on his brother’s heels in order to guard him, glared balefully at anyone who glanced twice at them, and rattled his sword constantly.

  Raistlin sighed to himself over this, but he knew there was nothing he could do. Remonstrating with his brother, urging Caramon to relax and not be so conspicuous, would probably only confuse him. Eventually Caramon would fit comfortably into his role as bodyguard, but it would take time. Raistlin would just have to be patient.

  Fortunately there were not that many people on the street to see them, since most of the herbalists were in the process of setting up stalls on the fairgrounds. On reaching the end of the street, they found it abandoned, no people in sight. Raistlin located the mageware shop easily enough. It was the only building on the left side of the road. Oak trees hid it from view, and there was the garden with its high stone wall. The sign of a mageware shop, the sign of the eye, was missing, however. The door was shut up tight, the windows were closed. The house might have been abandoned, but on peering over the wall, Raistlin saw that the garden was well tended.

  “Are you sure this is the place?” Caramon asked.

  “Yes, my brother. Perhaps the sign blew down in a storm.”

  “If you say so,” Caramon muttered. He had his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Let me go to the door, then.”

  “Absolutely not!” Raistlin said, alarmed. “The sight of you, scowling and waving that sword around, would scare any wizard witless. He might turn you into a frog or something worse. Wait here in the road until I call for you. Don’t worry. There’s nothing wrong,” Raistlin said with more assurance than he truly felt.

  Caramon started to argue. Recalling his pledge, he kept silent. The threat about the frog might also have had something to do with his quick compliance.

  “Sure, Raist. But you be careful. I don’t trust these magic-users.”

  Raistlin walked to the door. His body tingled with both anticipation and dread, excitement at the idea of obtaining what he needed, dread to think that he might have come all this way only to find the mage gone. Raistlin was in such a state of nervous excitement by the time he reached the door that at first his strength failed him; he could not lift his trembling hand to knock, and when he did, his knock was so faint that he was forced to repeat it.

  No one answered the door. No face came to peer curiously out the window.

  Raistlin very nearly gave way to despair. His hopes and dreams of future success had been built around this one shop; he had never imagined that it might be closed. He had looked forward to gaining the books he needed for so long, he had come so far and he was so close, that he did not think he could bear the disappointment. He knocked again, this time much louder, and he raised his voice.

  “Master Lemuel? Are you home, sir? I have come from Master Theobald of Solace. I am his pupil, and—”

  A small window inside the door slid open. An eye in the window peered out at Raistlin, an eye filled with fear.

  “I don’t care whose pupil you are!” came a thin voice through the small opening. “What do you think you’re doing, sho
uting that you’re a mage at the top of your lungs? Go away!”

  The window slid shut.

  Raistlin knocked again, more peremptorily, said loudly, “He recommended your shop. I have come to purchase—”

  The little window slid open. The eye appeared. “Shop’s closed.”

  The window slid shut.

  Raistlin brought in his reserves for the attack. “I have an unusual variety of plant with me. I thought that perhaps you might not be familiar with it. Black bryony—”

  The window slid open. The eye was more interested. “Black bryony, you say? You have some?”

  “Yes, sir.” Raistlin reached into his pouch and carefully drew out a tiny bundle of leaves, stems, and fruits with the roots attached. “Perhaps you’d be interested …”

  The window slid shut again, but this time Raistlin heard a bolt being thrown. The door opened.

  The man inside the door was clad in faded red robes, covered with dirt at the knees where he was accustomed to kneeling in his garden. He must have been standing on tiptoe to put his eye to the small window in the door, because he was almost as short as a dwarf, compact and round, with a face that must once have been as ruddy and cheerful as the summer sun. Now he was like a sun that is eclipsed. His eyes were puckered with worry and his brow creased. He peered nervously out into the street, and at the sight of Caramon, his eyes widened in fear and he very nearly shut the door again.

  Raistlin had his foot in it, however, and was quick to seize the handle with his hand. “May I present my brother, sir? Caramon, come here!”

  Caramon obligingly came over, ducking his head and grinning self-consciously.

  “Are you sure he’s who he says he is?” the mage asked, regarding Caramon with intense suspicion.

  “Yes, I’m certain he’s my brother,” Raistlin replied, wondering uneasily if he was having to deal with a lunatic. “If you look at us closely, you will note the resemblance. We are twins.”