The Soulforge

by Margaret Weis

Her hair was drawn back from her head, pulled back so tightly that it stretched the skin over her cheekbones, erasing many of her wrinkles, making her look younger. She was an impressive sight, one that the audience, in their opiated state, appreciated to the fullest. Murmurs of admiration and awe swept through the arena.

  Judith raised her hands for silence. The audience obeyed. All was hushed, no one coughed, no baby whimpered.

  “Those supplicants who have been deemed acceptable may now come forward to speak to those who have passed beyond,” the High Priest called out. He had an oddly high-pitched voice for a man his size.

  Eight people, who had been herded into a sort of pen on one side of the arena, now shuffled down the stairs in single file, guided by the priests. The supplicants were not permitted to step onto the floor of the arena itself, but were kept back by ropes.

  Six were middle-aged women, dressed in black mourning clothes. They looked pleased and self-important as they entered behind the priests. The seventh was a young woman not much older than Raistlin, who looked pale and worn and sometimes put her hand to her eyes. She was also wearing mourning clothes, her grief was obviously fresh. The eighth was a stolid farmer in his forties. He stood rock still, stared straight ahead, his face carefully arranged so as to betray no emotion. He was not dressed in mourning and looked extremely out of place.

  “Step forward and make your requests. What is it you would ask Belzor?” the High Priest called out.

  The first woman was escorted to the fore by a priest. Standing in front of the High Priestess, she made her request.

  She wanted to speak to her deceased husband, Arginon. “I want to make sure he’s fine and wearing his flannel weskit to keep off the chill,” she said. “This being what kilt him.”

  High Priestess Judith listened, and when the woman finished, the High Priestess made a gracious bow. “Belzor will consider your request,” she said.

  The next woman came forward with much the same desire, to speak to a dead husband, as did the four who came after.

  The High Priestess was gracious to each, promising that Belzor was listening.

  Then the priests led forward the young woman. She pressed her hands together, gazed earnestly at the High Priestess.

  “My little girl died of … of the fever. She was only five. And she was so afraid of the dark! I want to make sure … it’s not dark … where she is.…” The bereaved mother broke down and sobbed.

  “Poor girl,” said Caramon softly.

  Raistlin said nothing. He had seen Judith frown slightly, her lips compress in a tight, forbidding smile that he remembered very well.

  The High Priestess promised, in a tone somewhat colder than that she had used with the others, that Belzor would look into the matter. The young woman was helped back to her place in line, and the priests led forth the farmer.

  He appeared nervous but determined. Clasping his hands, he cleared his throat. In a loud and booming voice, speaking very rapidly, without a pause for breath or punctuation, he stated, “My father died six months ago we know he had money when he died ’cause he spoke of it when the fit was on him he must have hid it but we can’t none of us find it what we want to know is where the money is hid thank you.”

  The farmer gave a curt nod and stepped back in line, nearly trampling the priest who had come up to escort him.

  The audience murmured at this; someone laughed and was immediately stifled.

  “I am surprised he was permitted to come forward with such an ignoble request,” Sturm said in a low voice.

  “On the contrary,” Raistlin whispered, “I imagine that Belzor will look upon his request with favor.”

  Sturm looked shocked and tugged on his long mustache. He shook his head.

  “Wait and see,” Raistlin advised.

  The High Priestess once more raised her hands, commanding silence. The audience held its breath, an air of excited expectation electrified the crowd. Most had been in attendance many times previous. This was what they had come to see.

  Judith lowered her arms with a sudden dramatic gesture, which caused the voluminous sleeves to fall and cover her hands, hiding them from sight. The High Priest began to chant, calling upon Belzor. Judith tilted her head. Her eyes closed, her lips moved in silent prayer.

  The statue moved.

  Raistlin’s attention had been focused on Judith; he caught sight of the movement out of the corner of his eye. He shifted his gaze to the statue, at the same time drawing his brother’s attention to it with a nudge.

  “Huh?” Caramon gave a violent start.

  The crude stone statue of the viper had come to life. It twisted and writhed, yet as Raistlin narrowed his gaze to focus on the statue, he was not convinced that the stone itself was moving.

  “It’s like a shadow,” he said to himself. “It is as if the shadow of the snake has come to life … I wonder …”

  “Do you see that?” Caramon gasped, awe-struck and breathless. “It’s alive! Kit, do you see that? Sturm? The statue is alive!”

  The shadowy form of the snake, its hood spread wide, slithered forward across the arena. The viper was enormous, the swaying head brushed the high domed ceiling. The viper, tongue flickering, crawled toward the High Priestess. Women cried out, children shrieked, men called hoarse warnings.

  “Do not be afraid!” cried the High Priest, raising his hands, palm outward, to quiet the worshipers. “What you see is the spirit of Belzor. He will not harm the righteous. He comes to bring us word from beyond.”

  The snake slithered to a halt behind Judith. Its hooded head swayed benignly over her, its gleaming eyes stared out into the crowd. Raistlin glanced at the priests and priestesses in the arena. Some, especially the young, gazed up at the snake with wonder, utterly believing. The audience shared that belief, reveled in the miracle.

  A subdued Kit was grudgingly impressed. Caramon was a firm believer. Only Sturm remained doubtful, it seemed. It would take more than a stone statue come to life to displace Paladine.

  Judith’s head lifted. She wore an expression of ecstasy, her eyes rolled back until only the whites showed, her lips parted. A sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead.

  “Belzor calls forth Obadiah Miller.”

  The widow of the late Miller stepped nervously forward, her hands clasped. Judith shut her eyes, stood slightly swaying on her feet, in rhythm with the snake.

  “You may speak to your husband,” said the High Priest.

  “Obadiah, are you happy?” asked the widow.

  “Most happy, Lark!” Judith replied in an altered voice, deep and gravely.

  “Lark!” The widow pressed her hands to her bosom. “That was his pet name for me! It is Obadiah!”

  “And it would please me very much, my dear,” the late Obadiah continued, “if you would give a portion of the money I left you to the Temple of Belzor.”

  “I will, Obadiah. I will!”

  The widow would have spoken with her husband further, but the priest gently urged her to step back, permitting the next widow to take her place.

  This one greeted her late husband, wanted to know if they should plant cabbages next year or turn the parcel of land on the sunny slope over to turnips. Speaking through Judith, the late husband insisted on cabbages, adding that it would please him very much if a certain portion of all their produce should be given to the Temple of Belzor.

  At this, Kit sat up straight. She cast a sharp, questioning look at Raistlin.

  He glanced at her sidelong, nodded his head once very slightly.

  Kit lifted her brows, silently interrogating him.

  Raistlin shook his head. Now was not the time.

  Kit sat back, satisfied, the pleased smile again on her face.

  The other widows spoke to their dead. Each time the deceased husband came forth, he managed to say something that only a wife would know. The husbands all concluded by requesting money for Belzor, which the widows promised, wiping away happy tears, to grant.

  Jud
ith asked that the farmer searching for his lost heritage come forward.

  After a brief exchange between father and son concerning the ravages of the potato grub, an exchange which Belzor—speaking through Judith—appeared to find somewhat tedious, Judith brought the subject back to the hidden wealth.

  “I have told Belzor where to find the money,” said Judith, speaking for the late farmer. “I will not reveal this aloud, lest some dishonest person take advantage of the knowledge while you are away from home. Return tomorrow with an offering for the temple and the information will be imparted to you.”

  The farmer ducked his head several times, as grateful as if Belzor had handed him a chest of steel coins on the spot. Then it was the turn of the bereaved young mother.

  Recalling the forbidding expression on Judith’s face, Raistlin tensed. He could not imagine that Belzor would extract much of an offering from this poor woman. Her clothes were worn. Her shoes were clearly castoffs from someone else, for they did not fit. A ragged shawl covered her thin shoulders. But she was clean, her hair was neatly combed. She had once been pretty and would be pretty again, when time rounded off the sharp corners of her bitter loss.

  Judith’s head rolled and lolled. When she spoke, it was in the high-pitched voice of a little child, a terrified child.

  “Mama! Mama! Where are you? Mama! I’m afraid! Help me, Mama! Why don’t you come to me?”

  The young woman shuddered and reached out her hands. “Mother is here, Mia, my pet! Mother is here! Don’t be frightened!”

  “Mama! Mama! I can’t see you! Mama, there are terrible creatures coming to get me! Spiders, Mama, and rats! Mama! Help me!”

  “Oh, my baby!” The young woman gave a heartrending cry and tried to rush forward into the arena. The priest restrained her.

  “Let me go to her! What is happening to her? Where is she?” the mother cried.

  “Mama! Why don’t you help me?”

  “I will!” The mother wrung her hands, then clasped them together. “Tell me how!”

  “The child’s father is an elf, is he not?” Judith asked, speaking in her own voice, no longer that of a child.

  “He—he is only part elven,” the young woman faltered, startled and wary. “His great-grandfather was an elf. Why? What does that matter?”

  “Belzor does not look with favor upon the marriage of humans with persons of lesser races. Such marriages are contrived, a plot of the elves, intended to weaken humanity so that we will eventually fall to elven domination.”

  The audience murmured in approval. Many nodded their heads.

  “Because of her elven blood,” Judith continued remorselessly, “your child is cursed, and so she must live in eternal darkness and torment!”

  The wretched mother moaned and seemed near to collapsing.

  “What folly is this?” Sturm demanded in a low, angry voice.

  Several of his neighbors, overhearing, cast him baleful glances.

  “Dangerous folly,” said Raistlin and clasped his thin fingers around his friend’s wrist. “Hush, Sturm! Say nothing. Now is not the time.”

  “You and your husband are not wanted in Haven,” Judith stated. “Leave at once, lest more harm befall you.”

  “But where will we go? What will we do? The land is all we have, and that is not much! And my child! What will become of my poor child?”

  Judith’s voice softened. “Belzor takes pity on you, sister. Make a gift of your land to the temple, and Belzor might be prevailed upon to bring your child from darkness into light.”

  Judith’s head lowered to her chest. Her arms fell limp to her sides. Her eyes closed. The shadowy form of the viper retreated until it blended in with the statue, then vanished.

  Judith raised her head, looked around as if she had no idea where she was or what had happened. The High Priest took hold of her arm, supported her. She gazed out upon the audience with a beatific smile.

  The High Priest stepped forward. “The audience with Belzor is concluded.”

  The priests and priestesses picked up the baskets containing the charmed vipers. Forming into a procession, they circled the arena three times, chanting the name of Belzor, then they left through the door in the statue. Acolytes circulated among the crowd, graciously accepting all offerings made in Belzor’s name, with Belzor’s blessing.

  The High Priest led Judith to the door leading out of the temple. Here she greeted worshipers, who begged for her blessing. A large basket stood at the floor at Judith’s feet. Blessings were granted as the steel coins clinked.

  The young mother stood bereft and alone. Catching hold of one of the acolytes, she begged, “Take pity on my poor child! Her heritage is not her fault.”

  The acolyte coldly removed her hand from his sleeve. “You heard the will of Belzor, woman. You are fortunate our god is so merciful. What he asks is a very small price to pay to free your child from eternal torment.”

  The young mother covered her face with her hands.

  “Where’d the snake go?” asked Caramon, weaving unsteadily on his feet.

  Raistlin kept firm hold on his brother, dissuaded him from making a foray into the arena in search of the giant viper. “Kitiara, you and Sturm take Caramon back to the fairgrounds and put him to bed. I will meet you there.”

  “I do not want to believe in this miracle,” Sturm said, gazing at the statue, “but neither can I explain it.”

  “I can, but I’m not going to,” Raistlin said. “Not now.”

  “What will you do?” Kit asked, catching hold of the reeling Caramon by the shirttail.

  “I’ll join you later,” Raistlin said and left them before Kit could insist on coming with him.

  He pushed his way through the roving acolytes with their offering baskets to the arena, where the mother of the dead child stood alone. One man, passing her, gave her a shove, called out, “Elven whore.” A woman came up to her to say loudly, “It is well your child died. She would have been nothing but a pointy-eared freak!” The mother shrank away from these cruel words as from a blow.

  Anger burned in Raistlin, anger kindled from words shouted long ago, words the weak use against those weaker than themselves. An idea formed in hot forge-fire of his rage. It emerged from the flames as steel, heated and ready for slagging. In the space of three steps, he had forged the plan in his mind, the plan he would use to bring High Priestess Judith to ruin, discredit all the false priests of Belzor, bring about the downfall of the false god.

  Drawing near the unfortunate mother, Raistlin put out a hand to detain her. His touch was gentle, he could be very gentle when he wanted, yet the woman still shivered beneath his grasp in fright. She turned fearful eyes upon him.

  “Leave me alone!” she pleaded. “I beg of you. I have suffered enough.”

  “I am not one of your tormentors, madam,” Raistlin said in the quiet, calming tones he used to soothe the sick. His hand clasped over the mother’s, and he could feel her shaking. Stroking her hand reassuringly, he leaned near and whispered, “Belzor is a fraud, a sham. Your child is at peace. She sleeps soundly, as though you had rocked her to sleep yourself.”

  The woman’s eyes filled with tears. “I did rock her. I held her, and at the end, she was at peace, as you have said. ‘I feel better now, Mama,’ she told me, and she closed her eyes.” The woman clutched frantically at Raistlin. “I want to believe you! But how can I? What proof can you give me?”

  “Come to the temple tomorrow night.”

  “Come back here?” The mother shook her head.

  “You must,” said Raistlin firmly. “I will prove to you then that what I’ve told you is the truth.”

  “I believe you,” she said and gave him a wan smile. “I trust you. I will come.”

  Raistlin looked back into the arena, at the long line of worshipers fawning over Judith. The coins in the basket gleamed in the light of the braziers, and more money continued to flow in. Belzor had done well for himself tonight.

  One of the acolytes
came up, rattled the collection basket in front of Raistlin hopefully.

  “I trust we will see you at tomorrow night’s ceremony, brother.”

  “You can count on it,” said Raistlin.

  13

  RAISTLIN RETURNED TO THE FAIRGROUNDS, MULLING OVER HIS plan in his mind. The forge-fire in his soul had burned very hot but the flames died quickly when exposed to the cool night air. Plagued with self-doubt, he regretted having made his promise to the bereaved mother. If he failed, he would be laughed out of Haven.

  Shame and derision were far more difficult for Raistlin to contemplate than any physical punishment. He pictured the crowd hooting with mirth, the High Priest hiding his smugly pitying smile, the High Priestess Judith regarding his downfall in triumph, and he writhed at the thought. He began to think of excuses. He would not go to the temple tomorrow. He wasn’t feeling well. The young mother would be disappointed, left bitterly unhappy, but she would be no worse off than she was now.

  The right and proper thing to do would be to make a report to the Conclave of Wizards. They were the people most capable of dealing with the matter. He was too young, too inexperienced.…

  Yet, he said to himself, think of the triumph if I succeed!

  Not only would he ease the suffering of the mother, but he would also distinguish himself. How fine it would be to report not only the problem to the conclave, but to add modestly that he had solved it. The great Par-Salian, who had undoubtedly never heard of Raistlin Majere before, would take notice. A thrill came over Raistlin. Perhaps he would be invited to attend a meeting of the conclave! By this act, he would prove to others and to himself that he was capable of using powerful magicks in a crisis situation. Surely they would reward him. Surely the prize was worth the risk.

  “In addition, I will be fulfilling my promise to the three gods who once took an interest in me. If I cannot prove their existence to others, at least I can shatter the image of this false god who is attempting to usurp them. In that way, I will draw their favorable attention as well.”

  He went over his plan in his mind again, this time eagerly, excitedly, searching for flaws. The only flaw that he could see lay within himself. Was he strong enough, skilled enough, brave enough? Unfortunately none of those questions would be answered until the time came.