The Soulforge

by Margaret Weis

  He was further confirmed in his belief on noting that the spell required no components—no sand sprinkled over the eyes or bat guano rolled in the fingers. Judith had only to speak the words and make the appropriate gestures in order to work the magic. This was the reason for the voluminous sleeves.

  The question now was, could he cast this same spell?

  The spell was not exceptionally difficult, it did not require the skills of an archmage to cast. The spell would be easily accessible to an apprentice mage, but Raistlin was not even that. He was a novice, would not be permitted to apprentice himself until after he had taken the Test. By the laws of the conclave, he was forbidden to cast this spell until that time. The law was quite specific on that point.

  The laws of the conclave were also quite specific on another point: If ever a mage met a renegade wizard, one who was operating outside the law of the conclave, it was the duty of that mage to either reason with the renegade, bring the renegade to justice before the conclave, or—in extreme cases—end the renegade’s life.

  Was Judith a renegade? This was a question Raistlin had spent the night pondering. It was possible she might be a black-robed wizard, using her evil magic to fraudulently obtain wealth and poison people’s minds. Practitioners of evil magic, the Order of the Black Robes, worshipers of Nuitari, were an accepted part of the conclave’s ranks. Though few outsiders could understand or accept what they considered a pact with the forces of darkness.

  Raistlin recalled an argument he had presented to Sturm over this very point.

  “We mages recognize that there must be balance in the world,” Raistlin had tried to explain. “Darkness follows the day, both are necessary for our continued existence. Thus the conclave respects both the dark and the light. They ask that, in turn, all wizards respect the conclave’s laws, which have been laid down over the centuries in order to protect magic and those who practice it. The loyalty of any wizard must be to the magic first, to all other causes second.”

  Needless to say, Sturm had not been convinced.

  By Raistlin’s own argument, it was possible that a black-robed wizardess could practice evil magic in disguise and still be condoned by the conclave, with one important exception: The conclave would most certainly frown upon the use of magic to promote the worship of a false god. Nuitari, god of the dark moon and darker magicks, was known to be a jealous god, one who demanded absolute loyalty from those who sought his favor. Raistlin could not imagine Nuitari taking kindly to Belzor under any circumstances.

  In addition, Judith was slandering magic, threatening magic-users and endeavoring to persuade others that the use of magic was wrong. That alone would condemn her in the eyes of the conclave. She was a renegade, of that Raistlin had little doubt. He might run afoul of the conclave’s laws in casting a spell before he was an accepted member of their ranks, but he had a solid defense. He was exposing a fraud, punishing a renegade, and, by so doing, restoring the repute of magic in the world.

  Doubts at rest, his decision made, he started to work. He searched the library until he found a piece of lamb’s skin, rolled up with others in a basket. He stretched the skin out on the desk, holding it flat beneath books placed at the corners. Unfortunately the vials containing lamb’s blood, which he would need to use for ink, had all dried up. Having foreseen that this might be the case, Raistlin drew out a knife he had borrowed from his brother and laid it on the table, ready for use.

  This done, he prepared to laboriously transfer the spell in the book to the lamb’s skin. He would have liked to be able to cast the spell from memory, but as complex as the spell was—far more complex than any he had yet learned—he dared not trust himself. He had never yet performed magic in a crisis situation, and he had no idea how he would react to the pressure. He liked to think he would not falter, but he must not fall prey to overconfidence.

  He had the time and solitude necessary to his work. He could concentrate his energy and skill into the transference of the spell to the scroll. He could study the words beforehand, make certain he knew the correct pronunciation, for he would have to speak the words—and speak them correctly—both when he copied the spell and when he cast it.

  Settling down with the book, Raistlin pored over the spell. He spoke each letter aloud, then spoke each word aloud, repeating them until they sounded right in his ear, as a minstrel with perfect pitch tunes his lute. He was doing very well, and was feeling rather proud of himself, until he came to the seventh word. The seventh word in the spell was one he had never heard spoken. It might be pronounced any of several different ways, each with its own variant meaning. Which way was the right way?

  He considered going to ask Lemuel about it, but that would mean having to tell Lemuel what he planned to do, and Raistlin had already ruled out that option.

  “I can do this,” he said to himself. “The word is made up of syllables, and all I have to do is to understand what each syllable does, then I will be able to pronounce each syllable correctly. After that, I will simply combine the syllables to form the word.”

  This sounded easy, but it proved far more difficult than he had imagined. As soon as he had the first syllable settled in his mind, the second appeared to contradict it. The third had nothing to do with the previous two. Several times Raistlin very nearly gave up in despair. His task seemed impossible. Sweat chilled on his body. He lowered his head to his hands.

  “This is too hard. I am not ready. I must drop the whole idea, report her to the conclave, let some archmage deal with her. I will tell Kitiara and the rest that I have failed.…”

  Raistlin sat up. He looked down at the word again. He knew what the spell was supposed to do. Surely, using logical deduction as well as studying related texts, he could determine which meanings were the ones required. He went back to work.

  Two hours later, two hours spent searching through texts for every example of the use of the word or parts of the word in a magical spell that he could find, hours spent comparing those spells with each other, looking for patterns and relations, Raistlin sagged back in his chair. He was already weary, and the most difficult part—the actual copying—was before him. He felt a certain satisfaction, however. He had the spell. He knew how it was spoken, or at least he thought he did. The real test would come later.

  He rested a few moments, reveling in his victory. His energy restored, he sliced open a cut about three inches long on his forearm, and, holding his arm over a dish he’d placed on the table for the purpose, he collected his own blood to use for ink. When he had enough, he pressed on the wound to stop the bleeding, wrapped his arm with a handkerchief.

  He had just completed this when he heard footsteps advancing down the hall. Raistlin hurriedly drew his sleeve over his injured arm, flipped open the book to another page.

  Lemuel peered in the door. “I hope I’m not disturbing you. I thought you might like some dinner.…” Seeing the dish of blood and the lamb’s skin on the desk, the elder mage paused, looked quite startled.

  “I’m copying a spell,” Raistlin explained. “I hope you don’t mind. It’s a sleep spell. I’ve been having a bit of trouble with it, and I thought if I copied it, I could learn it better. And thank you for the offer, but I’m not really hungry.”

  Lemuel smiled, marveled. “What a very dedicated student you are. You would have never found me cooped up with my books on a sunny day during Harvest Home.” He turned to leave, paused again. “Are you sure about dinner? The housekeeper has fixed rabbit stew. She’s part elf, you know. Comes from Qualinesti. The stew is quite good, flavored with my own herbs—thyme, marjoram, sage …”

  “That does sound good. Perhaps later,” said Raistlin, who was not the least bit hungry but didn’t want to hurt the mage’s feelings.

  Lemuel smiled again and hurried off, glad to return to his garden.

  Raistlin went back to work. Flipping through the pages, he located the correct spell. He picked up the quill pen, made of the feather of a swan, the point tipped with sil
ver. Such a writing instrument was rather extravagant, not necessary to the making of the scroll, but it showed that the archmage had been prosperous in his line of work. Raistlin dipped the pen’s point in the blood. Whispering a silent prayer to the three gods of magic—not wanting to offend anyone of them—he put the pen to the scroll.

  The elegant quill wrote most smoothly, unlike other quills that would balk or sputter, causing the ruin of more than one scroll. The first letter seemed to glide effortlessly upon the lamb’s skin.

  Raistlin resolved to someday own such a pen. He guessed that Lemuel would have given it freely if Raistlin had asked, but Lemuel had already given his new friend a great deal. Pride forbade asking for more.

  Raistlin copied out the spell, pronouncing each word as it was written. The work was painstaking and time-consuming. Sweat formed beneath his hair, trickled down his neck and breast. He had to stop writing after each word to rub the cramp from his hand, cramps that came from clutching the pen too tightly, and to wipe the sweat from his palm. He wrote the seventh word with fear in his heart and the thought as he completed the scroll that this might have been all for naught. If he had mispronounced that word, the entire scroll and all his careful work were worthless.

  Reaching the end, he hesitated a moment before adding the final period. Closing his eyes, he again asked a prayer of the three gods.

  “I am doing your work. I am doing this for you. Grant me the magic!”

  He looked back on his work. It was perfect. No wobble in the os. The curls on the s were graceful but not overdone. He cast an anxious glance at the seventh word. There was no help for it. He had done his best. He put the fine silver point of the quill to the lamb’s wool and added the period that should start the magic.

  Nothing happened. Raistlin had failed.

  His eye caught a tiny flicker of light. He held his breath, wanting this as he had wanted his mother to live, willing this to happen as he had willed her to continue breathing. His mother had died. But the flicker of the first letter of the first word grew brighter.

  It was not his imagination. The letter glowed, and the glow flowed to the second letter, and then to the second word, and so on. The seventh word seemed to Raistlin to absolutely blaze with triumph. The final dot sparked and then the glow died away. The letters were burned into the lamb’s skin. The spell was ready for casting.

  Raistlin bowed his head, whispered fervent, heartfelt thanks to the gods who had not failed him. Rising to his feet, he was overcome by dizziness, and nearly passed out. He sank back into the chair. He had no idea what time it was, was startled to see by the position of the sun that it was midafternoon. He was thirsty and hungry and had an urgent need for a chamber pot.

  Rolling up the scroll, he tucked it carefully in a scroll case, tied the case securely to his belt. He pushed himself to his feet, made his way downstairs. After using the privies, he hungrily devoured two bowls of rabbit stew.

  Raistlin could not recall having eaten so much in his entire life. Shoving aside his bowl, he leaned back in his chair, intending to rest for only a brief moment.

  Lemuel found him sound asleep. The mage kindly covered the young man with a blanket, then left him sleeping.

  15

  RAISTLIN WOKE IN LATE AFTERNOON, GROGGY AND STUPID FROM a nap he had never intended to take. He had a stiff neck, and the back of his head ached where he had leaned against the chair. A sudden fear seized him that he had slept too long and missed the “miracle” slated for tonight at the temple. A glance at a pool of sunshine, meandering lazily through a screen of window-climbing ivy, reassured him. Rubbing the back of his neck, he threw off the blanket and went in search of his host. Fortunately he knew where to find him.

  Lemuel was in his garden, working diligently, although he did not appear to have made much progress in his preparations for moving.

  He confessed as much to Raistlin. “I start to do one thing, and then I think of another and I drop the first and move to the second, only to recall that I simply must do a third before either of them, so I leave to attend to that, only to recall that the first had to be done in advance.…” He sighed. “I’m not getting along very fast.”

  He gazed sadly at the upheaval that surrounded him—overturned pots, mounds of dirt, holes where plants had been uprooted. The plants themselves, looking forlorn and naked, lying on the ground with their roots shivering.

  “I suppose it’s because I’ve never been anywhere else but here. And I don’t want to be anywhere else. To tell you the truth, I haven’t even decided yet where I’m going. Do you think I would like Solace?”

  “Perhaps you won’t have to move after all,” Raistlin said, unable to witness Lemuel’s suffering without making some attempt to alleviate it. He couldn’t tell his intent, but he could hint. “Perhaps something will happen that will cause Belzor’s faithful to leave you alone.”

  “A second Cataclysm? Fiery mountains raining down on their heads?” Lemuel smiled wanly. “That’s too much to hope for, but thank you for the thought. Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “My studies went well,” said Raistlin gravely.

  “And will you stay for supper?”

  “No thank you, sir. I must return to the fairgrounds. My friends will be concerned about me. And please, sir,” Raistlin said by way of farewell, “do not give up hope. I have a feeling you will be here long after Belzor has gone.”

  Lemuel was considerably astonished at this and would have asked more questions had not Raistlin pointed out that the tulip bulbs were in danger of being carried away by a squirrel. Lemuel dashed off to the rescue. Raistlin checked for the twentieth time to make certain the scroll case hung from his belt, took his grateful leave, and departed.

  “I wonder what he’s up to …” Lemuel mused. Having chased off the thief, he watched Raistlin walk up the road in the direction of the fairgrounds. “He wasn’t copying out any sleep spell, that’s for certain. I may not be much of a mage, but even I could pull off a snooze without writing it down. No, he was copying something far more advanced, well beyond his novitiate rank. And all that about something happening to the Belzorites …”

  Lemuel chewed worriedly on a sprig of mint. “I suppose I should try to stop him.…” He considered this option, shook his head. “No. It would be like trying to stop a gnomish juggernaut once it’s in gear and rolling downhill. He would not listen to me, and of course there’s no reason why he should. What do I know? And he might have a chance of succeeding. There’s a lot going on behind those fox-fire eyes of his. A lot going on.”

  Muttering to himself, Lemuel started to return to his digging. He stood a moment, holding the trowel and staring down at his once tranquil garden, now in a state of chaos.

  “Perhaps I should just wait and see what tomorrow brings,” he said to himself, and after covering the roots of the plants he had already dug up, making certain that they were warm and damp, he went inside to eat his supper.

  Raistlin arrived back at the fairgrounds just in time to prevent Caramon from turning out the town guard in search of him.

  “I was busy.” he replied testily, in response to his brother’s persistent questioning. “Have you done as I ordered?”

  “Kept hold of Tasslehoff?” Caramon heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Yes, between Sturm and me, we’ve managed, but I never want to have to go through anything like that again so long as I live. We had him occupied this morning, or at least we thought we did. Sturm said he wanted to look at Tas’s maps. Tas dumped them all out, and he and Sturm spent an hour going over them. I guess I must have dozed off. Sturm got interested in looking at a map of Solamnia, and by the time I woke up and we realized what was what, the kender was gone.”

  Raistlin frowned.

  “We went after him,” Caramon said hurriedly. “And we caught up with him. Luckily he hadn’t gone far—the fair is pretty interesting, you know. We found him, and after we took the monkey back to its owner, who’d been searching high and low for it …
The monkey does tricks. You should see it, Raist. It’s real cute. Anyway, the owner was hopping mad, although Tas said over and over that the monkey had accompanied him voluntarily, and the monkey did seem to like him—”

  “Kindred spirits,” observed Raistlin.

  “—so by this time, the monkey’s owner was yelling for the town guard. Tanis showed up about then, and we made off with Tas while Tanis explained it had all been a mistake and settled with the owner for a couple of steel for his trouble. Sturm decided then that a little military discipline was what was called for, so we took Tas to the parade ground and marched up and down for an hour. Tas thought that was great fun and would have kept it up, but due to the hot sun and the fact that we’d forgotten to bring any water, Sturm and I had to call it quits. We were about done in. The kender, of course, was feeling fine.

  “We no more than got back to the fairgrounds when he sees some woman swallowing fire—she really did, Raist. I saw it, too. Tas runs off and we chase after him, and by the time we caught up, he’d lifted two pouches and a sugar bun and was just about to try putting hot coals into his mouth. We took the coals away and returned the pouches, but the sugar bun was gone except for some crumbs around Tas’s lips. And then—”

  Raistlin held up his hand. “Just answer me this: Where is Tasslehoff now?”

  “Tied up,” said Caramon wearily. “In the back of Flint’s booth. Sturm’s standing guard over him. It was the only way.”

  “Excellent, my brother,” said Raistlin.

  “Absolute hell,” Caramon muttered.

  Flint was doing quite well for himself at the fair. People crowded into his stall, kept the dwarf busy pulling rings from the cases and lacing on bracers. He had taken in a goodly quantity of steel, which he kept in a locked iron money box, as well as many items taken in trade. Bartering was an accepted practice at the fair, especially among the vendors. Flint had acquired a new butter churn (which he would trade to Otik for brandy), a washtub (his had sprung a leak), and a very fine tooled-leather belt. (His current belt was a tad too small. Flint claimed it had shrunk when he fell into Crystalmir Lake. Tanis said no, the belt was fine. It was the dwarf who had expanded.)