Caramon helpfully tried to make himself look as much like his brother as possible. Raistlin attempted to match Caramon’s open, honest smile. Lemuel studied them for several long moments, during which Raistlin thought he would fly apart from the tension of this strange interview.
“I guess so.” The mage didn’t sound very convinced. “Did anyone follow you?”
“No, sir,” said Raistlin. “Who would there be to follow us? Most people are at the fairgrounds.”
“They’re everywhere, you know,” observed Lemuel gloomily. “Still, I suppose you’re right.” He looked long and hard down the street. “Would your brother mind very much going to check to make certain no one is hiding in the shadow of that building over there?”
Caramon looked considerably astonished but, at an impatient nod from his twin, did as he was told. He walked back down the street to a tumbledown shack, searched not only the shadow but took a look inside the building itself. He stepped back out into the street, lifting his hands and shrugging to indicate that he saw nothing.
“There, you see, sir,” Raistlin said, motioning his brother back. “We are alone. The black bryony is very fine. I have used it successfully to heal scars and close wounds.”
Raistlin held the plant in his palm.
Lemuel regarded it with interest. “Yes, I’ve read about it. I’ve never seen any. Where did you find it?”
“If I could come inside, sir …”
Lemuel eyed Raistlin narrowly, gazed at the plant longingly, made up his mind. “Very well. But I suggest that you post your brother outside to keep watch. You can’t be too careful.”
“Certainly,” said Raistlin, weak with relief.
The mage pulled Raistlin inside, slammed shut the door so rapidly that he shut it on the hem of Raistlin’s white robes and was forced to open the door again to remove the cloth.
His twin gone, Caramon roamed about for a few moments, scratching his head and trying to figure out what to do. Eventually he found a seat on a crumbling stone wall and sat down to watch, wondering what it was he was supposed to watch for and what he was supposed to do if he saw it.
The interior of the mage’s shop was dark. The shutters over the windows blocked out all the daylight. Lemuel lit two candles, one for himself and one for Raistlin. By the candle’s light, he saw in dismay that everything was in disorder, with half-filled crates and barrels standing about. The shelves were bare, most of the merchandise had been packed away.
“A light spell would be less costly and more efficient than candles, I know,” Lemuel confessed. “But their tormenting has me so upset that I haven’t been able to practice my magic in a month. Not that I was all that good at it to begin with, mind you.” He sighed deeply.
“Excuse me, sir,” said Raistlin, “but who has been tormenting you?”
“Belzor,” said the mage in a low tone, glancing about the darkened room as though he thought the god might jump out at him from the cupboard.
“Ah,” said Raistlin.
“You know of Belzor, do you, young man?”
“I met one of his priests when I first came to town. He warned me that magic was evil and urged me to come to his temple.”
“Don’t do it!” Lemuel cried, shuddering. “Don’t go anywhere near the place. You know about the snakes?”
“I saw that they carried vipers,” Raistlin said. “The fangs are pulled, I suppose.”
“Not so!” Lemuel shivered. “Those snakes are deadly poison. The priests trap them in the Plains of Dust. It is considered a test of faith to be able to hold the snakes without being bitten.”
“What happens to those lacking in faith?”
“What do you suppose happens? They are punished. A friend told me. He was present during one of their meetings. I tried to go to one myself, but they refused to let me inside. They said I would pollute the sanctity of their temple. I was glad I didn’t. That very day one of the snakes bit a young woman. She was dead within seconds.”
“What did the priests do?” Raistlin asked, shocked.
“Nothing. The High Priestess said it was Belzor’s will.” Lemuel shook so that his candle flame wavered. “Now you know why I asked your brother to stand guard. I live in mortal fear of waking up one morning to find one of those vipers in my bed. But I won’t live in fear long. They win. I’m giving up. As you see”—he waved his hand at the crates—“I’m moving out.”
He held the candle near. “Might I take a closer look at that black bryony?”
Raistlin handed over the small parcel. “What have they done to you?” He had to ask the question several times and give Lemuel a gentle nudge before he could wrest the mage’s attention away from examining the plant.
“The High Priestess herself came to me. She told me to close my shop or face the wrath of Belzor. At first I refused, but then they grew nasty. The priests would stand outside the shop. When anyone came, they’d shout out that I was a tool of evil.
“Me?” Lemuel sighed. “A tool of evil? Can you imagine? But the priests frightened people and they quit coming. And then one night I found a snakeskin hanging from the door. That was when I closed the shop and decided to move.”
“Excuse me if I seem disrespectful, sir, but if you fear them, why did you try to go to their temple?”
“I thought it might placate them. I thought perhaps I could pretend to go along with them, just to keep them from hounding me. It didn’t work.” Lemuel shook his head sadly. “Moving wouldn’t be so bad. The mageware shop itself never made a lot of money. It’s my herbs and my plants that I’ll miss. I’m trying to dig them up hoping to transplant them, but I’m afraid I’ll lose most of them.”
“The shop wasn’t successful?” Raistlin asked, glancing around wistfully at the bare shelves.
“It might have been if I’d lived in a city like Palanthas. But here in Haven?” Lemuel shrugged. “Most of what I sold came from my father’s collection. He was a remarkable wizard. An archmagus. He wanted me to follow in his footsteps, but his shoes were much too big. I couldn’t hope to fill them. Just wasn’t cut out for it. I wanted to be a farmer. I have a wonderful way with plants. Father wouldn’t hear of it, however. He insisted that I study magic. I wasn’t very good at it, but he kept hoping I’d improve with age.
“But then, when I was finally old enough to take the Test, the conclave wouldn’t let me. Par-Salian told my father it would be tantamount to murder. Father was extremely disappointed. He left home that very day, some twenty years ago, and I haven’t heard from him since.”
Raistlin was barely listening. He was forced to admit that his trip had been in vain.
“I’m sorry,” he said, but that was more for himself than the mage.
“Don’t be,” Lemuel said cheerfully. “I was relieved to see Father go, to tell you the truth. The day he left I plowed up the yard and put in my garden. Speaking of which, we should get this plant into water immediately.”
Lemuel bustled off into the kitchen, which was located behind the shop in the back of the house. Here the shutters were open, letting in the sunlight. Lemuel blew out his candle.
“What type of wizard was your father?” Raistlin asked, blowing out his candle in turn.
“A war wizard,” Lemuel replied, lovingly tending the black bryony. “This is really quite nice. You say you grew it? What sort of fertilizer do you use?”
Raistlin answered. He looked out the window onto Lemuel’s garden, which, despite the fact that it was half dug up, was truly magnificent. At any other time, he would have been interested in Lemuel’s herbs, but all he saw now was a blur of green.
A war wizard …
An idea was forming in Raistlin’s mind. He was forced to discuss herbs for a few moments, but soon led the conversation back to the archmagus.
“He was considered one of the best,” Lemuel said. He was obviously quite proud of his father, held no bitterness or grudges against the man. He brightened when he spoke of him. “The Silvanesti elves once invited
him to come help them fight the minotaurs. The Silvanesti are very snooty. They almost never have anything to do with humans. My father said it was an honor. He was immensely pleased.”
“Did your father take his spellbooks with him when he left?” Raistlin asked hesitantly, not daring to hope.
“He took some, I’m sure. The very powerful ones, no doubt. But he didn’t bother with the rest. My guess is that he moved to the Tower of Wayreth, and in that case, you know, he wouldn’t really need any of his elementary spellbooks. What type of soil would you recommend?”
“A bit on the sandy side. Do you still have them? The books, I mean. I would be interested in seeing them.”
“Blessed Gilean, yes, they’re still here. I have no idea how many there are or if they are of any importance. A lot of the mages I deal with … or rather used to deal with”—Lemuel sighed again—“aren’t interested in war magic.
“Elves come here often, mostly from Qualinesti these days. Sometimes they have need of what they term ‘human magic,’ or sometimes they come for my herbs. You wouldn’t think that, would you, young man? Elves being so good with plants themselves. But they tell me that I have several species that they have not been able to grow. One young man used to say that I must have elf blood in me somewhere. He’s a mage, too. Perhaps you know him. Gilthanas is his name.”
“No, sir, I’m sorry,” Raistlin said.
“I suppose you wouldn’t. And, of course, I don’t have any elf blood at all. My mother was born and raised here in Haven, a farmer’s daughter. She had the misfortune to be extremely beautiful, and that’s how she attracted my father. Otherwise I would have been the son of some honest farmer, I’m sure. She wasn’t very happy with my father. She said she lived in fear that he’d burn the house down. You say you use black bryony to close wounds? What part? The juice of the berry? Or do you grind the leaves?”
“About those books …” Raistlin hinted, when he had finally satisfied Lemuel as to the care, feeding, and uses of the black bryony.
“Oh, yes. In the library. Up the stairs and down the hall, second door on your left. I’ll just go pot this. Make yourself at home. Do you suppose your brother would like something to eat while he keeps watch?”
Raistlin hastened up the stairs, pretending not to hear Lemuel call after him, wanting to know if the black bryony would prefer to be in direct sunlight or partial shade. He went straight to the library, drawn to it by the whispered song of magic, a teasing, tantalizing melody. The door was shut, but not locked. The hinges creaked as Raistlin opened it.
The room smelled of mold and mildew; it had obviously not been aired out in years. Dried mouse dung crunched under Raistlin’s boot, dark shapes flitted into corners at his entrance. He wondered what mice found in this room to eat and hoped fervently that it wasn’t the pages of the spellbooks.
The library was small, contained a desk, bookshelves, and scroll racks. The scroll racks were empty, to Raistlin’s disappointment, but not his surprise. Magical spells inscribed on scrolls could be read aloud by those with the knowledge of the language of magic. They did not require nearly so much energy or the level of skill needed to produce a spell “by hand,” as the saying went. Even a novice such as Raistlin could use a magical scroll written by an archmagus, provided the novice knew how to pronounce the words correctly.
Thus scrolls were quite valuable and charily guarded. They could be sold to other magi, if the owner did not have a use for them. The archmagus would have taken his scrolls with him.
But he had left behind many of his books.
Scattered and upended, some of the spellbooks lay on the floor, as if they had been considered, then discarded. Raistlin could see gaps on the shelves where the archmagus had presumably removed some valuable volume, leaving the unwanted to lie moldering on the shelf.
These remaining books, their white bindings now turned a dirty and dismal gray, their pages yellowed, had been considered valueless by their original owner. But in Raistlin’s eyes, the books glittered with a radiance brighter than that of a dragon’s hoard. His excitement overwhelmed him. His heart beat so rapidly that he became light-headed, faint.
The sudden weakness frightened him. Sitting down on a rickety chair, he drew in several deep breaths. The cure almost proved his undoing. The air was dusty. He choked and coughed, and it was some time before he could catch his breath.
A book lay on the floor almost at his feet. Raistlin picked it up, opened it.
The archmagus’s handwriting was compact, with sharp, jutting angles. The distinctive leftward slant of the letters indicated to Raistlin that the man was a loner, preferred his own company to that of others. Raistlin was somewhat disappointed to find that this volume wasn’t a spellbook at all. It was written in Common, with a smattering of what Raistlin thought might be the mercenary tongue, a cant used by professional soldiers. He read the first page and his disappointment faded.
The book gave detailed instructions on how to cast magical spells on ordinary weapons, such as swords and battle-axes. Raistlin marked the book as one of immense value—to him, at least. He set the book to one side and took up another. This was a spellbook, probably of very elementary spells, for it had no magical locks or prohibitions placed upon it. Raistlin could puzzle out a few of the words, but most were foreign to him. The book served to remind him of how much more he had yet to learn.
He regarded the book in bitterness and frustration. It had been cast aside by the great archmagus, the spells it contained beneath his notice. Yet Raistlin could not even decipher them!
“You are being foolish,” Raistlin reprimanded himself. “When this archmagus was my age, he didn’t know nearly as much as I do. Someday I will read this book. Someday I will cast it aside.”
He laid the book down on top of the first and proceeded with his investigations.
Raistlin became so absorbed that he completely lost track of time. He was aware that twilight was coming on only when he found that he was having to hold the books to his nose to be able to read them. He was about to set off in search of candles when Lemuel tapped at the door.
“What do you want?” Raistlin demanded irritably.
“Excuse me for disturbing you,” Lemuel said meekly, poking his head inside. “But your brother says that it will be dark soon and that you should be going.”
Raistlin remembered where he was, remembered that he was a guest in this man’s house. He jumped to his feet in shame and confusion. One of the precious volumes slid from his lap and tumbled to the floor.
“Sir, please forgive my rudeness! I was so interested, this is so fascinating, I forgot that I was not in my own home—”
“That’s quite all right!” Lemuel interrupted, smiling pleasantly. “Think nothing of it. You sounded just like my father. Took me back in time. I was a boy again for a moment. Did you find anything of use?”
Raistlin gestured at the three large stacks of books near the chair.
“All these. Did you know that there is an account of the minotaur battle for Silvanesti in here? And this is a description of how to use battle spells effectively, without endangering your own troops. These three are books of spells. I have yet to look through the others. I would offer to buy them, but I know I do not have the means.” He gazed sadly at the pile, wondering despairingly how he would ever manage to save up enough money.
“Oh, take them,” Lemuel said, waving his hand casually around the room.
“What? Really, sir? Are you serious?” Raistlin caught hold of the back of the chair to steady himself. “No, sir,” he said recovering. “That would be too much. I could never repay you.”
“Pooh! If you don’t take them, I’ll have to move them, and I’m running out of crates.” Lemuel spoke very glibly about leaving his home, but even as he tried to make this small joke, he was gazing sadly around him. “They’ll only go into an attic, to be eaten by mice. I would much rather they were put to good use. And I think it would please my father. You are the son he wante
d.”
Tears stung Raistlin’s eyes. His fatigue from the three days of travel, which included not only time on the road but also time spent climbing the mountains of hope and plummeting into the valleys of disappointment, had left him weak. Lemuel’s kindness and generosity disarmed Raistlin completely. He had no words to thank the man and could only stand in humble, joyous silence, blinking back the tears that burned his eyelids and closed his throat.
“Raist?” Caramon’s anxious voice came floating up the staircase. “It’s getting dark and I’m starved. Are you all right?”
“You’ll need a wagon to cart these home in,” observed Lemuel.
“I have … my friend … wagon … at the fair …” Raistlin didn’t seem to be able to manage a coherent sentence.
“Excellent. When the fair is ended, drive over here. I’ll have these books all packed for you and ready to go.”
Raistlin drew out his purse, pressed it into Lemuel’s hand. “Please, take this. It isn’t much, it doesn’t nearly begin to cover what I owe, but I would like you to have it.”
“Would you?” Lemuel smiled. “Very well, then. Although it’s not necessary, mind you. Still, I recall my father saying once that magical objects should be purchased, never given as gifts. The exchange of money breaks whatever hold the previous owner may have had on them, frees them up for the next user.”
“And if by chance you should ever come to Solace,” Raistlin said, casting one more lingering look into the library as Lemuel shut the door, “I will give you slips and cuttings of every plant I have in my garden.”
“If they are all as excellent as the black bryony,” said Lemuel earnestly, “then that is more than payment enough.”
12
NIGHT HAD FALLEN BY THE TIME THE BROTHERS REACHED THE fairgrounds, which were located about a mile outside the town’s stockade. They had no difficulty finding their way. Campfires as numerous as fireflies marked the campsites of the vendors, their light warm and inviting. The fair itself was filled with people, though none of the stalls were open and would not be until the next day. Vendors continued to arrive, their wagons rolling down the rutted road. They called out greetings to friends and exchanged pleasant banter with rivals as they unloaded their wares.
The Soulforge Page 28