The Soulforge

by Margaret Weis

  Sturm shook his head, unable to complete the expression of the dream, too wonderful to possibly come true.

  “Are you going alone?” Caramon asked, awed.

  Sturm smiled, a rare thing for the usually solemn and serious young man. “I had hoped that you would come with me, Caramon. I would ask you, too, Raistlin,” he added more stiffly, “but the journey will be long and difficult, and I fear it might tax your health. And I know that you would not want to be so far from your studies.”

  Ever since their return from Haven, Raistlin had spent every moment he could spare studying the tomes of the war magus. He had added several new spells to his spellbook.

  “On the contrary, I am feeling unusually strong this spring,” Raistlin remarked. “I would be able to take my books with me. I thank you for the offer, Sturm, and I will consider it, as will my brother.”

  “I’m going,” Caramon said. “So long as Raist comes, too. And as he says, he has been really strong. He hasn’t been sick hardly at all.”

  “I am glad to hear it,” Sturm said, though without much enthusiasm. He knew very well that the twins would not be separated, although he had hoped against all reason to be able to persuade Caramon to leave Raistlin behind. “I remind you, Raistlin, that magic-users are not venerated in my country. Although, of course, you would be accorded the hospitality due any guest.”

  Raistlin bowed. “For which I am deeply grateful. I will be a most accommodating guest, I assure you, Sturm. I will not set the bed linens on fire, nor will I poison the well. In fact, you might find certain of my skills useful on the road.”

  “He’s a really good cook,” stated Caramon.

  Sturm rose to his feet. “Very well. I will make the arrangements. My mother left me some money, although not much. Not enough for horses, I fear. We will have to travel on foot.”

  The moment the door closed behind Sturm, Caramon began capering around the small house, upsetting the furniture and wreaking havoc in his delight. He even had the temerity to give his brother a hug.

  “Have you gone mad?” Raistlin demanded. “There! Look what you’ve done. That was our only cream pitcher. No, don’t try to help! You’ve caused enough damage. Why don’t you go polish your sword or sharpen it or whatever you do to it?”

  “I will! A great idea!” Caramon rushed off to his bedroom, only to run back a moment later. “I don’t have a whetstone.”

  “Go borrow one from Flint. Or better still, take your sword to Flint’s and work on it there,” Raistlin said, mopping up spilled cream. “Anything to get you out from underfoot.”

  “I wonder if Flint would like to come along. And Kit and Tanis and Tasslehoff! I’ll go see.”

  His brother gone and the house quiet, Raistlin picked up the pieces of the broken pitcher and threw them away. He was as excited over the prospect of a journey to new and distant lands as his brother, though he had more sense than to smash the crockery over it. He was considering which of his herbs to pack, which he might find along the roadside, when there came a knock at the door.

  Thinking it might be Sturm, Raistlin called out, “Caramon has gone to Flint’s.”

  The knock was repeated, this time with the sharp rapping of an impatient visitor.

  Raistlin opened the door, regarded his guest in amazement and surprise and not a little concern.

  “Master Theobald!”

  The mage stood upon the boardwalk outside the house. He wore a cloak over his white robes and carried a stout staff, indications that he had been traveling.

  “May I come in?” Theobald asked gruffly.

  “Certainly. Of course. Forgive me, Master.” Raistlin stood aside, ushered his guest across the threshold. “I was not expecting you.”

  That was quite true. In all the years that Raistlin had attended the master’s school, Theobald had never once paid a visit to Raistlin’s home, nor evinced the slightest inclination to do so.

  Bemused and somewhat apprehensive—his exploits in Haven had been widely reported throughout Solace—Raistlin invited his master to be seated in the only good chair in the house, the chair that happened to be his mother’s rocking chair. Theobald declined all offers of food and wine.

  “I do not have time to linger. I have been gone for a week, and I have not yet been home. I came here immediately. I have just returned from the Tower at Wayreth, from a meeting of the conclave.”

  Raistlin’s uneasiness increased. “Isn’t a meeting of the conclave at this early time of year somewhat unusual, Master? I thought they were always held in the summer.”

  “It is indeed unusual. We wizards had matters of great import to discuss. I was specially sent for,” Theobald added, stroking his beard.

  Raistlin made suitable comments, all the while wishing impatiently and with increasing nervousness that the provoking old fart would come to the point.

  “Your doings in Haven were among the topics of discussion, Majere,” Theobald said, glowering at Raistlin, brows bristling. “You broke many rules, not the least of which was casting a spell far above your capability.”

  Raistlin would have pointed out that the spell was obviously not above his capability to cast, since he had cast it, but he knew that this would be lost on Theobald.

  “I did what I thought was right under the circumstances, Master,” Raistlin said, as meekly and contritely as he could.

  “Rubbish!” Theobald snorted. “You know what was right under the circumstances. You should have reported the wizardess to us as a renegade. We would have dealt with the matter in time.”

  “In time, Master,” Raistlin emphasized. “Meanwhile, innocent people were being bilked out of what little they had, others were being driven from their homes. The charlatan priestess and her followers were causing irreparable harm. I sought to end it.”

  “You ended it, all right,” Theobald said with dark implications.

  “I was exonerated from her murder, Master,” Raistlin returned, his tone sharp. “I have a writ from the High Sheriff of Haven himself proclaiming my innocence.”

  “So who did kill her?” Theobald asked.

  “I have no idea, Master,” Raistlin replied.

  “Hunh,” Theobald grunted. “Well, you handled the matter badly, but, still, you handled it. Damn near got yourself killed in the process, I understand. As I said, the conclave discussed the matter.”

  Raistlin kept silent, waited to hear his punishment. He had already determined that if they forbade him to practice magic, he would defy them, become a renegade himself.

  Theobald withdrew a scroll case. He opened the lid, taking an unconscionable length of time about it, fussing and fumbling clumsily until Raistlin was tempted to leap across the room and wrest the case from the man’s hand. Finally the lid came off. Theobald removed a scroll, handed it across to Raistlin.

  “Here, pupil. You might as well see this for yourself.”

  Now that the scroll was in his hands, Raistlin wondered if he had the courage to read it. He hesitated a moment to insure that his hands did not tremble and betray him, then, with outward nonchalance masking inward apprehension, he unrolled the scroll.

  He tried to read it, but his nervousness impaired his eye sight. The words would not come into focus. When they did, he did not comprehend them.

  Then he could not believe them.

  Amazed and aghast, he stared at his master. “This … this can’t be right. I am too young.”

  “That is what I said,” Theobald stated in nasty tones. “But I was overruled.”

  Raistlin read the words again, words that, though they were not in the least magical, began to glow with the radiance of a thousand suns.

  The aspiring magus, Raistlin Majere, is hereby summoned to the Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth to appear before the Conclave of Wizards on the seventh day of the seventh month at the seventh minute of the seventh hour. At this time, in this place, you will be tested by your superiors for inclusion into the ranks of those gifted by the three gods, Solinari, Lunita
ri, Nuitari.

  To be invited to take the Test is a great honor, an honor accorded to few, and should be taken seriously. You may impart knowledge of this honor to members of your immediate family, but to no others. Failure to accede to this injunction could mean the forfeiture of the right to take the Test.

  You will bring with you your spell book and spell components. You will wear robes representing the alliance of your sponsor. The color of the robes you will wear, if and when you are apprenticed—i.e., your allegiance to one of the three gods—will be determined during the Test. You will carry no weapons, nor any magical artifacts. Magical artifacts will be provided during the Test itself in order to judge your skill in the handling of said artifacts.

  In the unfortunate event of your demise during the Test, all personal effects will be returned to your family.

  You may be provided with an escort to the Tower, but your escort should be aware that he or she will not be permitted to enter the Guardian Forest. Any attempt by the escort to force entry will result in most grievous harm to the escort. We will not be held responsible.

  That last sentence had been written, then crossed out, as if the writer had experienced second thoughts. An addendum had been inserted.

  An exception to this rule is made in regard to Caramon Majere, twin brother to the aforementioned contestant. Caramon Majere is expressly desired to attend his brother’s testing. He will be admitted into the Guardian Forest. His safety will be guaranteed, at least during the time he is inside the forest.

  Raistlin lowered the scroll, let it roll back upon itself. His hands lacked the strength to hold it up, keep it open. To be invited to take the Test so young, to be even considered capable of taking the Test at his novitiate stage, was an honor of incredible magnitude. He was overcome with joy, joy and pride.

  Of course, there was that cautionary phrase, In the event of your demise. Later, in the small hours of the night, when he would lie awake, unable to sleep for his excitement, that sentence would rise up before him, a skeletal hand reaching out to grasp him, drag him down. But now, filled with confidence in himself, proud of his achievements and the fact that these achievements had evidently impressed the members of the conclave, Raistlin had no fear, no qualms.

  “I thank you, Master,” he began when he could control his voice sufficiently to speak.

  “Don’t thank me,” Theobald said, standing. “It is likely that I am sending you to your doom. I won’t have your death on my conscience. I told Par-Salian as much. I go on record as being opposed to this folly.”

  Raistlin accompanied his guest to the door. “I am sorry you have so little faith in me, Master.”

  Theobald made an impatient gesture with his hand. “Come to me if you have any questions on your spellbook.”

  “I will do so, Master,” said Raistlin, privately resolving that he would see Theobald in the Abyss first. “Thank you.”

  After the master had gone and Raistlin had shut the door behind him, it was now Raistlin’s turn to caper about the house. Transported with happiness, he lifted the skirts of his robes and performed several of the round-dance steps Caramon had struggled for years to teach him.

  Entering at that moment, Caramon stared openmouthed at his brother. His astonishment increased tenfold when Raistlin ran over to his twin, flung his arms around him, embraced him, then burst into tears.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Caramon misread his brother’s emotions, his heart almost stopped in terror. He dropped his sword, which fell to the floor with a resounding clang, to clutch at his twin. “Raistlin! What’s wrong? What’s the matter? Who died?”

  “Nothing is the matter, my brother!” Raistlin cried, laughing and drying his tears. “Nothing in the world is the matter! For once, everything is right.”

  He waved the scroll, which he still held in his hand, pranced about the small room until he collapsed, out of breath but still laughing, in his mother’s rocking chair.

  “Shut the door, my brother. And come sit beside me. We have a great deal to discuss.”

  3

  SWEARING CARAMON TO SECRECY REGARDING THE TEST PROVED a difficult task. In his exuberance, Raistlin showed Caramon the precious document summoning them both to the Tower at Wayreth. Caramon came across the unfortunate line in the event of your demise and was extremely upset. So upset that, at first, he vowed Raistlin should not go, that he would have Tanis and Sturm and Flint and Otik and half the population of Solace sit on Raistlin before he should take a Test where the penalty for failure was death.

  Raistlin was at first touched by Caramon’s very genuine concern. Exhibiting unusual patience, Raistlin tried to explain to his twin the reasoning behind such drastic measures.

  “My dear brother, as you yourself have seen, magic wielded by the wrong hands can be extremely dangerous. The conclave wants only those among their ranks who have proven that they are disciplined, skillful, and—most important—dedicated body and soul to the art. Thus those who merely dabble in magic, who practice it for their own amusement, do not want to take the Test, because they are not prepared to risk their lives for the magic.”

  “It is murder,” Caramon said in a low voice. “Murder, plain and simple.”

  “No, no, my brother.” Raistlin was soothing. Thinking of Lemuel, Raistlin smiled as he added, “Those deemed not suitable for taking the Test are prohibited from doing so by the conclave. They permit only those magi who have an excellent chance of passing to take the Test. And, my dear brother, very, very few fail. The risk is extremely minor and, for me, no risk at all. You know how hard I have worked and studied. I can’t possibly fail!”

  “Is that true?” Caramon lifted his pale, haggard face, regarded his twin with a searching, unblinking gaze.

  “I swear it.” Raistlin sat back in the rocker, smiled again. He couldn’t keep from smiling.

  “Then why do they want me to come with you?” Caramon asked suspiciously.

  Raistlin was forced to pause before answering. Truth to tell, he didn’t know why Caramon should be invited to come along. The more Raistlin thought about it, the more he resented the fact. Certainly it was logical for his brother to escort him as far as the forest, but why should he come farther? It was extremely unusual for the conclave to permit entry to their Tower to any person outside their ranks.

  “I’m not sure,” Raistlin admitted at last. “Probably it has something to do with the fact that we are twins. There is nothing sinister about it, Caramon, if that’s what you are thinking. You will merely accompany me to the Tower and wait until I have finished the Test. Then we will return home together.”

  Envisioning that triumphant journey back to Solace, Raistlin’s spirits, which had been shadowed a moment before, were elevated to the heavens and sparkled bright as the stars.

  Caramon was dolefully shaking his head. “I don’t like it. I think you should discuss it with Tanis.”

  “I tell you again, I am not permitted to discuss it with anyone, Caramon!” Raistlin said angrily, losing patience at last. “Can’t you get that through your gully-dwarf skull?”

  Caramon looked unhappy and uneasy, but still defiant.

  Raistlin left the rocking chair. Hands clenched to fists, he stood over his brother, stared down at him, spoke to him with passionate intensity.

  “I am commanded to keep this secret, and I will do so. And so will you, my brother. You will not mention this to Tanis. You will not mention this to Kitiara. You will not mention this to Sturm or anyone else. Do you understand me, Caramon? No one must know!”

  Raistlin paused, drew a breath, then said quietly, so that there could be no doubt of his sincerity, “If you do—if you ruin this chance for me—then I have no brother.”

  Caramon went white to the lips. “Raist, I—”

  “I will disown you,” Raistlin pressed on, knowing that the iron must strike to the heart. “I will leave this house, and I will never come back. Your name will never be spoken in my presence. If I see you coming dow
n the road, I will turn and walk the opposite direction.”

  Caramon was hurt, deeply hurt. His big frame shuddered, as if the point Raistlin had driven home was in truth steel.

  “I guess … it means a lot … to you,” Caramon said brokenly, lowering his head, staring at his clasped hands.

  Raistlin was softened by his brother’s anguish. But Caramon had to be made to understand. Kneeling beside his twin, Raistlin stroked his brother’s curly hair.

  “Of course this means a lot to me, Caramon. It means everything! I have worked and studied almost my entire life for this chance. What would you have me do—cast it aside because it is dangerous? Life is dangerous, Caramon. Just stepping out that door is dangerous! You cannot hide from danger. Death floats on the air, creeps through the window, comes with the handshake of a stranger. If we stop living because we fear death, then we have already died.

  “You want to be a warrior, Caramon. You practice with a real sword. Isn’t that dangerous? How many times have you and Sturm very nearly sliced off each other’s ears? Sturm has told us of the young knights who die in the tourneys held to test their knighthood. Yet if you had the chance to fight in one of those, wouldn’t you take it?”

  Caramon nodded. A tear fell on the clasped hands.

  “What I do is the same thing,” Raistlin said gently. “The blade must be forged in the fire. Are you with me, my brother?” He pressed his hand over Caramon’s. “You know that I would stand at your side, should you ever fight to prove your mettle.”

  Caramon lifted his head. In his eyes, there was new respect and admiration. “Yes, Raist. I’ll stand with you. I understand, now that you’ve explained it. I won’t say a word to anyone. I promise.”

  “Good.” Raistlin sighed. The elation had drained away. The battle with his brother had sapped his energy, leaving him weak and exhausted. He wanted to lie down, to be quiet and alone in the comforting darkness.

  “What do I tell the others?” Caramon asked.

  “Whatever you choose,” Raistlin returned, heading for his room. “I don’t care, so long as you make no mention of the truth.”