The Soulforge

by Margaret Weis

  At first glance, the chairs were empty.

  At second glance, they were not. Wizards occupied them, men and women of different races, wearing the different colors suitable to their orders.

  Caramon gasped and lurched unsteadily on his feet. Raistlin’s hand closed viciously over his twin’s arm, probably hurting his brother as much as it supported him.

  Caramon was having a very bad time of it. He had never taken either magic or his brother’s gift for magic seriously. To him, magic was coins dribbling from the nose, bunnies popping up unexpectedly, giant kender. Even that spell had impressed Caramon only moderately. When it came down to it, the kender had not really turned into a giant at all. It was only illusion, trickery. Trickery and magic had been all muddled up in Caramon’s mind.

  This was not trickery. What he witnessed was a raw display of power, intended to impress and intimidate. Caramon continued to fear for his brother. If he could have, he would have snatched Raistlin from that place and fled. But somewhere in the depths of Caramon’s mind, he was finally beginning to understand the high stakes for which his brother gambled, stakes high enough that it might be worth betting his life.

  The wizard in the center chair rose to his feet.

  “That is Par-Salian, head of the conclave,” Raistlin whispered to his brother, hoping to save Caramon from yet another gaffe. “Be polite!”

  The initiates bowed respectfully, Caramon along with the rest.

  “Greetings,” said Par-Salian in a kind and welcoming tone.

  The great archmage was in his early sixties at the time, though his long white hair, wispy white beard, and his stooped shoulders made him look older. He had never been robust, had always preferred study to action. He worked constantly to develop new spells, refine and enhance old ones. He was eager for magical artifacts as a child is eager for sugarplums. His apprentices spent much of their time traveling the continent in search of artifacts and scrolls or in tracking down rumors of such.

  Par-Salian was also a keen observer and participant in the politics of Ansalon, unlike many wizards who held themselves above the trivial, everyday dealings of an ignorant populace. The head of the conclave had contacts in every single government of any importance on Ansalon. Antimodes was not Par-Salian’s only source of information. He kept most of his knowledge secret and to himself, unless it benefited his plans to do otherwise.

  Though few knew the full extent of his influence in Ansalon, an aura of wisdom and power surrounded Par-Salian with an almost visible halo of white light, shining so brightly that the two Silvanesti elves, who held most humans in the same regard as other races held kender, bowed low to him and then bowed again.

  “Greetings, initiates,” Par-Salian repeated, “and guest.”

  His gaze went to Caramon, seemed to strike right to the big man’s heart and set him trembling.

  “You have each come at the appointed time by invitation to undergo tests of your skills and your talent, your creativity, your thought processes, and, most importantly, the testing of yourself. What are your limits? How far can you push beyond those limits? What are your flaws? How might those flaws impede your abilities? Uncomfortable questions, but questions we each must answer, for only when we know ourselves—faults and strengths alike—will we have access to the full potential that is within us.”

  The initiates stood silent and circumspect, nervous and awed and anxious to begin.

  Par-Salian smiled. “Don’t worry. I know how eager you are, and therefore I will not indulge in long speeches. Again I want to bid you welcome and to extend my blessing. I ask that Solinari be with you this day.”

  He lifted his hands. The initiates bowed their heads. Par-Salian resumed his seat.

  The head of the Order of Red Robes stood up, moved briskly on to the business at hand.

  “When your name is called, step forward and accompany one of the judges, who will take you to the area where the testing will begin. I am certain you are all familiar with the criteria of the testing, but the conclave requires me to read it to you now, so that none can later claim he or she entered into this unknowingly. I remind you that these are guidelines only. Each Test is specially designed for the individual initiate and may include all or only a part of what the guidelines call for.

  “ ‘There shall be at least three tests of the initiate’s knowledge of magic and its use. The Test shall require the casting of all of the spells known to the initiate, at least three tests that cannot be solved by magic alone, and at least one combat against an opponent who is higher in rank than the initiate.’ Do you have any questions?”

  Not one of the initiates did; the questions were locked in each person’s heart. Caramon had a great many questions, but he was too awed to be able to ask them.

  “Then,” said the Red Robe, “I ask that Lunitari walk with you.”

  He sat back down.

  The head of the Order of Black Robes rose to her feet. “I ask that Nuitari walk with you.” Unfurling a scroll, she began to read off names.

  As each name was called, the initiate stepped forward, to be met by one of the members of the conclave. The initiate was led in silence and with the utmost solemnity into the shadows of the hall, then vanished.

  One by one, each of the initiates departed until only one, Raistlin Majere, remained.

  Raistlin stood stoically, with outward calm, as the numbers of his fellows dwindled around him. But his hands, inside his sleeves where they could not be seen, clenched to fists. The irrational fear came to him that perhaps there had been some mistake, that he was not supposed to be here. Perhaps they had changed their minds and would send him off. Or perhaps his loutish brother had done something to offend them, and Raistlin would be dismissed in shame and ignominy.

  The Black Robe finished reading the names, shut the scroll with a snap, and still Raistlin stood in the Hall of Mages, except that now he stood alone. He maintained his rigid pose, waited to hear his fate.

  Par-Salian rose to his feet, came forward to meet the young man. “Raistlin Majere, we have left you to the last because of the unusual circumstances. You have brought an escort.”

  “I was requested to do so, Great One,” Raistlin said, the words coming in a whisper from his dry mouth. Clearing his throat, he said, more forcefully, “This is my twin brother, Caramon.”

  “Welcome, Caramon Majere,” said Par-Salian. His blue eyes, in their maze of wrinkles, peered deep into Caramon’s soul.

  Caramon mumbled something that no one heard and subsided into unhappy silence.

  “I wanted to explain to you why we requested the presence of your brother,” Par-Salian continued, shifting his astute gaze back to Raistlin. “We want to assure you that you are not unique, nor have we singled you out. We do this in the case of all twins who come to the testing. We have discovered that twins have an extremely close bond, closer than most siblings, almost as if the two were in reality one being split in twain. Of course, in most cases, both twins take up the study of magic, both having a talent for it. You are unusual in this respect, Raistlin, in that you alone show a talent for the art. Have you ever had any interest in magic, Caramon?”

  Called upon to speak, to answer such a startling question, one that he had in truth never even considered, Caramon opened his mouth, but it was Raistlin who answered.

  “No, he has not.”

  Par-Salian looked at the two of them. “I see. Very well. Thank you for coming, Caramon. And now, Raistlin Majere, will you be so good as to accompany Justarius? He will take you the area where the Test begins.”

  Raistlin’s relief was so great that he was momentarily faint and dizzy, obliged to close his eyes until he regained his balance. He paid scant attention to the Red Robe who stepped forward, aware only that it was an older man who walked with a pronounced limp.

  Raistlin bowed to Par-Salian. Spellbook in hand, he turned to accompany the Red Robe.

  Caramon took a step to follow his twin.

  Par-Salian was quick to
intervene. “I am sorry, Caramon, but you cannot accompany your brother.”

  “But you told me to come,” Caramon protested, fear giving him the voice he had lacked.

  “Yes, and it will be our pleasure to entertain you during your brother’s absence,” Par-Salian said, and though his tone was pleasant, there was no arguing with his words.

  “Good … good luck, Raist,” Caramon called out awkwardly.

  Raistlin, embarrassed, ignored his brother, pretended he had not heard him. Justarius led the way into the shadows of the hall.

  Raistlin was gone, walking where his brother could not follow.

  “I have a question!” Caramon cried. “Is it true that sometimes the initiates die—”

  He was talking to a door. He was inside a room, a very comfortable room that might have been lifted from one of the finest inns in Ansalon. A fire burned on the hearth. A table, loaded with food, all of Caramon’s favorite dishes, and a most excellent ale.

  Caramon paid no attention to the food. Angry at what he considered high-handed treatment, he tried to open the door.

  The handle came off in his hands.

  Now extremely fearful for his brother, suspecting some sort of sinister intent on Raistlin’s life, Caramon was determined to rescue his twin. He hurled himself at the door. It shook beneath his weight but did not budge. He beat at the door with his fists, shouting for someone to come and release him.

  “Caramon Majere.”

  The voice came from behind him.

  Startled and alarmed, Caramon turned around so fast that he tripped over his own feet. Stumbling, he clutched at the table and stared. Par-Salian stood in the center of the room. He smiled reassuringly at Caramon.

  “Forgive my dramatic arrival, but the door is wizard-locked, and it’s such a bother removing the spell and then putting it on again. Is the room comfortable? Is there anything we might bring you?”

  “Damn the room!” Caramon thundered. “They told me he might die.”

  “That is true, but he is aware of the risks.”

  “I want to be with him,” said Caramon. “I’m his twin. I have that right.”

  “You are with him,” said Par-Salian softly. “He takes you everywhere.”

  Caramon didn’t understand. He wasn’t with Raistlin, they were trying to trick him, that’s all. He brushed the meaningless words aside.

  “Let me go to him.” He glowered and clenched his fists. “Either you let me go or I’ll tear down this Tower stone by stone.”

  Par-Salian stroked his beard to hide his smile. “I’ll make a bargain with you, Caramon. You permit our tower to remain standing, unharmed, and I’ll permit you to watch your brother as he takes his Test. You will not be allowed to help or assist him in any way, but perhaps watching him may alleviate your fears.”

  Caramon thought it over. “Yeah. All right,” he said. Once he knew where Raistlin was, Caramon figured he could go to him if he needed help.

  “I’m ready. Take me to him. Oh, and thanks, but I’m not thirsty now.”

  Par-Salian was pouring water from a pitcher into a bowl.

  “Sit down, Caramon,” he said.

  “We’re going to go find Raist—”

  “Sit down, Caramon,” Par-Salian repeated. “You want to see your twin? Look into the bowl.”

  “But it’s only water.…”

  Par-Salian passed his hand over the water in the bowl, spoke a single magic word, scattered a few crumbled leaves of plants into the water.

  Sitting down, planning to first humor the old man and then grab him by his scrawny throat, Caramon looked into the water.

  3

  RAISTLIN TRUDGED DOWN A LONELY, LITTLE-TRAVELED ROAD ON the outskirts of Haven. Night was falling, a stiffening breeze swayed the treetops, sent autumn leaves flying. There was a smell of lightning in the humid air. He had been traveling all day on foot, he was tired and hungry, and now a storm was approaching. All thought of spending the night sleeping on the ground vanished from his mind.

  A tinker he had met earlier had told him, in response to a question, that there was an inn up ahead, an inn with the droll name of the Inn Between. The tinker added the warning that the inn had an evil reputation, was known to be frequented by the wrong sort of crowd. Raistlin didn’t care what sort of crowd drank there, so long as the inn had a bed beneath a roof and they let him sleep in it. He had little fear of thieves. It must be obvious from his shabby robes that he carried nothing of value. The very sight of those robes—the robes of a magic-user—would make the ordinary footpad think twice before accosting him.

  The Inn Between, so called because it was located equidistant between Haven and Qualinesti, did not look propitious. The paint on its hanging sign was faded past recognition—no great loss to the art community. The owner, having expended his wit on the name, had not been able think of any way to illustrate it beyond a huge red X in the middle of a squiggle that might have been a road.

  The building itself had a sullen and defiant air, as if it were tired of being teased about its clever name and would, in a fit of ill temper, tumble down upon the head of the next person who mentioned it. The shutters were half closed, giving its windows a suspicious squint. Its eaves sagged like frowning brows.

  The door opened with such reluctance that Raistlin, on the first try, thought the inn might have closed down. He could hear voices and laughter inside, smell the scent of food. A second, more forceful push, caused the door to relinquish. It opened grudgingly, with a screech of rusted hinges, slammed shut quickly behind him, as much as to say, “Don’t blame me. I did my best to warn you.”

  The laughter stopped at Raistlin’s entrance. The inn’s guests turned their heads to look at him, consider him, prepare to take whatever action they deemed appropriate. The bright light of a roaring fire partially dazzled him. He could see nothing for a moment until his eyes adjusted, and therefore he had no idea whether any of the guests had taken an unusual interest in him. By the time he could see, they had all gone back to doing whatever it was they were doing.

  Most of them, that is. One group, consisting of three cloaked and hooded figures, seated on the far side of the room, paid him considerable attention. When they resumed their conversation, they put their heads together, talking excitedly, occasionally lifting their heads to cast glittering-eyed glances in his direction.

  Raistlin found an empty booth near the fire, sat down thankfully to rest and warm himself. A glance at the plates of his fellow guests showed that the food was plain fare. It didn’t look particularly tasty, but didn’t appear likely to poison him either. Stew being the only dish offered, he ordered that, along with a glass of wine.

  He ate a few bites of unnameable meat, then pushed the bits of potato and coagulated gravy around with his spoon. The wine was surprisingly good, with a taste of clover. He relished it and was regretting that his meager purse could not afford him a second glass when a cool pitcher appeared at his elbow.

  Raistlin lifted his head.

  One of the cloaked men who had been so interested in Raistlin stood at his table.

  “Greetings, stranger,” the man said, speaking Common with a slight accent, an accent that reminded Raistlin of Tanis.

  Raistlin was not surprised to see an elf, though he was extremely surprised to hear the elf add, “My friends and I noticed how much you enjoyed the wine. It comes from Qualinesti, as do we. My friends and I would like to share this pitcher of our fine wine with you, sir.”

  No respectable elf would be found drinking in a human-owned tavern. No respectable elf would initiate a conversation with a human. No respectable elf would buy a human a pitcher of wine. This gave Raistlin a pretty good idea of the status of his new acquaintances.

  They must be dark elves—those who have been “cast from the light” or exiled from the elven homelands, the worst possible fate that can befall an elf.

  “What you drink and with whom you drink is your prerogative, sir,” Raistlin said warily.

 
“It’s not prerogative,” the elf returned. “It’s wine.”

  He smiled, thinking himself clever. “And it’s yours, if you want it. Do you mind if I sit down?”

  “Forgive me for seeming rude, sir. I am not in the mood for company.”

  “Thank you. I accept the invitation.” The elf slid into the seat opposite.

  Raistlin rose to his feet. This had gone far enough. “I bid you good evening, sir. I am in need of rest. If you will excuse me …”

  “You’re a magic-user, aren’t you?” the elf asked. He had not removed the hood that covered his head, but his eyes were visible. Almond-shaped, they gleamed hard and clear, as if the liquid orbs had frozen.

  Raistlin saw no need to answer such an impertinent and perhaps dangerous question. He turned away, intending to bargain with the innkeeper for a patch of floor near the fire in the common room.

  “Pity,” said the elf. “It would be your good fortune if you were—a magic-user, I mean. My friends and I”—he nodded his head in the direction of his two hooded companions—“have in mind a little job where a wizard might come in handy.”

  Raistlin said nothing. He did not leave the table, however, but remained standing, regarded the elf with more interest.

  “There’s money to be had,” the elf said, smiling.

  Raistlin shrugged.

  The elf was puzzled at his reaction. “Odd. I thought humans were always interested in money. It seems I was wrong. What might tempt you? Ah, I know. Magic! Of course. Artifacts, enchanted rings. Spellbooks.”

  The elf rose gracefully to his feet. “Come meet my brethren. Hear what we’ve got in mind. Then if you happen to run across a mage”—the elf winked—“you could let him know he could make his fortune by joining up with us.”

  “Bring the wine,” Raistlin said. Walking through the inn, he joined the other two elves at their table.