Dark Heart

Chapter 5

For Caramon, it was a good day. All morning his mother baked batches of sunflower seed muffins, and he helped. Well, sort of. He attached himself to Rosamun, chattering like a monkey, and every time she was through with a mixing spoon or bowl, he licked it clean. His face and little tunic were splotched with batter; there were streaks of the honey-brown stuff in his hair. And when the muffins were done, he helped out by eating twelve or seventeen of them. Caramon wasn't keeping track-he wasn't so good at counting anyway.

After this major effort, his stomach started to feel stuffed.

"Owwwww," he said, rubbing his round belly. "Mother, don't you think going outside and playing might make me feel better?" He grinned at his frail mother, who smiled back sunnily. Rosamun was in the best possible mood.

"Fine, dear, just don't wander too far. I have a little sewing and straightening up to do, and I don't think that would help your stomach at all."

Remembering his vow to look after her, Caramon glanced over his shoulder to make sure his mother was fine before heading out the door. Rosamun was humming to herself as she cleaned up the pots and utensils that were scattered around the kitchen.

Outside, the six-year-old climbed down a rope ladder to the area just below their cottage, where he and Raist sometimes played, within earshot of home. Nobody else was nearby, although the occasional wayfarer could be spotted through the vallenwood trunks on the main road. Stomping around, Caramon kicked away sticks and stones and cleared a space for digging.

He hunted around and found several big sticks that he judged suitable for use as picks and wedges and makeshift shovels. He knew he needed a good supply, because they tended to break.

For about an hour Caramon was thoroughly happy digging for buried treasure (he had been told by his father that treasure could be located, sometimes, in the most unlikely places). After which time the little boy stood, sweat-drenched and covered with scratches and dirt, up to his waist in a hole that was almost two feet deep. He surveyed his work with satisfaction. He hadn't found any treasure, but he was still optimistic.

Just as Caramon was going to resume digging, a horde of little boys his own age, some of whom he knew from school, went running and shouting by on their way to somewhere.

"Where you going?" called Caramon to one he recognized.

"Crab apple war!" replied the boy, a freckled lad of eight, taking the opportunity to stop and catch his breath. "Come on!"

"Yeah! But don't bring that droopy brother of yours!" added another boy, who screeched to a halt, almost bowling the first one over.

Caramon scampered up the rope ladder to check on Rosamun. He found her on the small porch outside the cottage, sitting in a chair next to a pile of clothes, basking in the sun as she hemmed a dress. With a smile on her face, his mother waved him off unconcernedly.

He hurried to catch up with the gang of boys, who had gathered around a little thicket of trees some ten minutes away from Caramon's home. Tiny, firm green crab apples hung from the low-slung branches, and the boys had picked and collected dozens of them in piles on the ground. They stuffed this "ammunition" into their pockets and pouches and backpacks, while carrying as many as possible in each hand.

"There you are Caramon. Hurry up! You be commander of our side," shouted one group of the boys, who had divided up into two armies.

Caramon, who was greatly liked-as opposed to his twin brother-and greatly feared in war games, was chosen over a number of eight — and even ten-year-old candidates. Indeed, the other "general," a hulking ten-year-old named Ranelagh, was two heads taller than Caramon.

Taking up their positions at opposite ends of the crab apple thicket, the two sides rushed each other at the agreed upon signal. Caramon was in the forefront of his army, which numbered about a half-dozen boys, yelling and directing them.

"Willem, you go around that way. Lank, watch your backside. Wolf, take some of those crab apples and get up in that tree."

He led the charges, throwing the little crab apples as quickly and hard as he could. Caramon had a good arm, and he nimbly dodged the hail of apples that hurtled in his direction. The object was to land as many of the missiles as possible, and then to retreat before being whacked on the shoulder, shins or, worse, noggin. It was not a game for the fainthearted.

The crab apple war went on most of the afternoon. There were occasional defections, when a boy had to quit and go home, and occasional time outs when everyone took a break and sprawled around, taking bites out of the sour fruit. But mostly it was attack, retreat, attack, retreat, attack, retreat, over and over, until the sun was waning.

Caramon had proved himself a worthy and brave tactician. More than the other boys he was dotted with bumps and bruises from well-aimed crab apples, not to mention pieces of pulp and gobs of juice. During the time outs, the commander had sampled a few too many of the crab apples, so his stomach was kind of hurting again.

He and Ranelagh, who had a good-sized, bloody bulge on his forehead owing to one of Caramon's better throws, decided that the war was a draw. They shook hands on a truce.

"It was a good fight. May we do battle again some day," said Caramon with the gravity he imagined a real warrior would feel at the end of a fiercely fought combat. Then he let out a whoop, setting off loud cheers by survivors on both sides.

Realizing that it was almost suppertime, and that he had been gone for a good part of the day, Caramon tried to hurry along toward home, half skipping, half running. He was sore and tired and, in truth, getting a little hungry again. His clothes were torn; shaggy, golden brown hair was plastered against his brow. Dried cookie batter, dirt, crab apple sludge, cuts, scrapes, and purple bruises told the tale of his eventful day.

As Caramon came around a bend within sight of the high vallenwood that bore his home, he heard a distinctly feminine scream for help. He immediately thought of his mother, but the cry came from another direction, near a clump of smaller trees, not from his cottage.

Running over, he saw a girl about his own age, standing and looking up toward the higher reaches of one of the trees. She was cute and dimpled, but her face was marred by tears. Looking up, too, Caramon saw that a small tabby was lodged in the branches near the very top of the tree.

"My kitty!" the girl said, pointing upward for Caramon's benefit. "My kitty is stuck in that tree!"

Caramon looked up again, a frown on his face. He was awfully tired, and the tree looked awfully high.

"It's such a tall tree," the girl continued, turning to give Caramon the full benefit of her pleading expression. "I would climb it myself, except that I can't reach the branches to get started. My kitty's name is Cirque. I'm afraid he's going to be stuck up there forever." She started to wail, then quieted to a few sobs and sniffles. Caramon stood there awkwardly, wanting to comfort her but not knowing what to do.

"You look like a good climber. Do you think you could get him?"

Caramon puffed out his chest a bit, his hunger and tiredness fleeing in the face of her appealing gaze. He looked up at the mewing tabby again. Then the little boy hitched his pants manfully, got a good grip on one of the bottom branches, and began to haul himself upward.

After Kitiara and Gilon had left, the master mage followed Raistlin into the small, spartan annex and bade him sit in one of the chairs. Then Morath summoned a young man, dressed in simple workman's clothes, who took instructions that the master mage not be interrupted for the duration of the morning. The man, evidently some sort of servant, nodded and left, closing the door to the library as he did.

From behind that door, Raist occasionally heard the muffled comings and goings of Morath's students, who availed themselves of the library's resources. Their conversations were whispered. Doubtless they were not anxious to disturb the master mage. Raistlin guessed that most of their studies took place in the rooms that lined the long, winding corridor.

The room Morath and Raistlin occupied was as nondescript as could be-limestone walls, with no windows, color, or decorations. The strategy, even little Raist realized, was to minimize distractions and to focus concentration. Morath interrogated him for several hours, until well past midday. His questions seemed to be, not tricky, but open-ended and philosophical in nature. Perhaps there were no right answers.

In any case Morath appeared every bit as interested in Raist's reaction to the questions as he was in what might be the correct response. The master mage's black eyes bore into the small boy relentlessly. Raistlin, who had gone without lunch, grew increasingly dizzy and hungry, but he fought to stay alert.

"For a mere child, you speak well," Morath said grudgingly at one point, "but let us talk some more about good and evil. A mage must study and understand both. Not only the obvious-the differences-but the similarities, as well. What is the kinship between them? How would you, Raistlin, define evil?"

Any other six-year-old would have been out of his element in such a discussion; certainly Caramon would have scratched his head in bewilderment. But Raist was a solitary boy, physically weak and wary of playmates, and he had spent many hours alone, pondering just such matters. Especially since last year, when he had first observed and learned some rudimentary magic at the Red Moon Fair.

At first the little boy had imagined that he would become a good wizard, battling villains and dread creatures run amok, using his mind and his abilities the same way Caramon so easily mastered athletic and fighting skills. Mages dedicated to neutrality intrigued Raist, though at this point in time he knew little enough about them. Certainly he had thought a lot about evil, as the enemy of good.

"I think it would be a mistake to define evil too precisely or simply," said Raistlin thoughtfully, his voice thin and tired-sounding, despite his best efforts. "But whatever else it is, it is the opposite of good, and so to know it, we must also know good."

"A clever and sensible reply," said the mage tersely. "But tell me this, how would we define it in the absence of good?"

"Well," said Raist with a frown, "there can be no true absence of good, nor of evil really. One cannot exist without the other. They are in a kind of balance, counterpoint, with each other at all times. One might be dominant, the other dormant, but never truly absent."

"Can you think of no example of evil?" asked the master mage.

"No pure example… except, of course, the gods of darkness," the boy added hastily.

Morath looked satisfied. "Then how do we recognize evil?" he persisted.

"Its disguises are infinite."

"Yet a mage must strive to recognize and identify evil, both in himself and his magic, and as regards others."

"Yes," agreed Raist. "One must study its manifest forms. More than most-" he paused and searched for the proper words "-a mage does learn to recognize evil. One who wears the white robe would identify it as anathema. A black robe would know it as an ally."

"And a red robe?"

"Hmm," said Raistlin, his voice pitifully weary. "I'm not sure. I guess I would say that a red robe ought to know it as part of himself."

For the past several minutes Morath's eyes had narrowed, intrigued. Indeed, the master mage had stopped pacing and taken a seat on the other wooden chair for the first time since the hours of questioning had begun. Now he leaned forward and emitted a short, barking laugh.

"Hah!" Morath exclaimed. "Very clever. Superficial, I should think, but exceedingly clever for a six-year-old boy!"

Raistlin seized on the brief moment of amity to ask for a break. He was eager for Morath's approval, but sensed he did not have it. "Please sir," Raist asked respectfully, "may I have some water and eat my lunch now?"

Immediately Morath's harsh demeanor returned. He stood up briskly and moved away from the table. Then he turned, folded his arms, and glared at the small, hungry boy.

"Mages must be able to devote hours at a time to their studies, whether they're hungry or not," Morath advised. "If you cannot bear up through one day of simple tests, then you are too young, too much of a child, to begin your studies."

Raist, sitting there all shrunken up with fatigue and hunger, his little-boy face wan and pinched, his eyes watering, refused to apologize. "If that is your answer," he said petulantly, "then let us proceed. I assume you won't penalize me for the mere asking."

In fact, Morath was a little hungry himself, though he hated to admit it. He usually broke at midday and ate a modest lunch in the company of his favorite students. But he had found himself determined to confound this little boy who had an answer to every question. Even if the answers were sometimes unusual, the master mage had to admit they were well considered. He was as impressed as he was irritated by the boy's gravity and defiance, his self-control and refusal to knuckle under.

"Perhaps this would be a good time to break," Morath relented finally. "I will have a tray brought in to you, supplementing whatever you have carried with you on your trek from Solace. In the meantime, I must leave you alone and go check on my students."

The master mage opened the door into the library and, before leaving, hesitated and turned to Raistlin. "You have ten minutes," he said. "No more."

Raistlin ate his lunch quickly, barely managing to wash it down with the cool, foamy drink brought by the young man in workman's garb, before Morath returned.

The master mage stood in the doorway and harrumphed, then with a gesture indicated that Raistlin should come into the library proper. Following Morath into that vast circular room with its poolbottom light and shelves of books after spending hours in the cramped annex, Raist felt revitalized and excited.

His heart thumped wildly against his rib cage. This wondrous library, so different from anything he had known in Solace-how he longed to read all of these books, to study the ancient arts here! Raistlin gazed at the books as another child might gaze longingly at a plate of sweets.

Morath pointed Raistlin toward a chair. He went to a shelf and picked out several tomes, three of which he set before Raist. One other, an ancient leather-bound volume, he placed next to his own chair, across from Raist.

"Open that gilt-embossed book in front of you and turn to page twenty-five."

Raistlin was disappointed to see that the book in question appeared to contain basic numerical equations. Dutifully, he began to read. The minutes stretched on. Morath said nothing, merely sat across from the boy, watching him closely. When Raist peeked over the top of the pages, the master mage seemed almost to be dozing. At least his eyes were hooded.

A discreet knock on the door interrupted Morath's reverie. Muttering a few words under his breath, the master mage stood and bade whoever it was to enter. The door swung open, although how it operated, whether mechanically or magically, Raist could not be sure. In any case, the boy was not supposed to be paying any attention. He was supposed to be reading, so all of his looks were furtive ones.

A plump boy about Kitiara's age, dressed in the gray robes of an apprentice mage, came in. Obviously one of the students, the boy seemed very much in awe of the master mage as he struggled to find his voice.

"Master," the boy began tentatively. "Alekno is having, er, trouble with the invisibility spell. He has been able to make his legs disappear, but unfortunately that is all. Now it seems that he cannot make them reappear. We have tried to aid him, but cannot tell what he is doing wrong. Would you advise us?"

"Alekno's habitual failure to pay attention during his instruction results in just this sort of difficulty," responded Morath snappishly. "He is fortunate not to be facing a horde of combative minotaurs or some other situation where he might really need to disappear. I am tempted to let him stay half-in visible, if only for a day or two. Teach him to listen next time."

The plump boy shifted uneasily on his feet, uncertain of how to respond, a plaintive look on his face.

"Oh well," said Morath with irritation. He rose and headed toward the door, muttering and grumbling. At the threshold he turned back toward Raist. "Continue. I expect to be back shortly."

As instructed, Raistlin kept going. Laboriously the boy turned the pages, reading with his finger from top to bottom, left to right, doing his best to understand and remember the tables described in the text. These included basic arithmetic and measurements, as well as sophisticated equivalents, angles and degrees, and component breakdowns. Raistlin continued reading until almost an hour had passed, and still the master mage did not return.

All the rote mental exercises made the boy drowsy. Understanding numerical configurations would be helpful for certain spells and situations, Raist supposed, but he had to yawn as he turned the last page of the book and closed its gilt cover.

Still there was no sign of Morath, nor any echo of noise from the other side of the library door where he had disappeared. The late afternoon sun seeping in from above was no longer so pleasant, and the light in the library had grown amber and murky. Reinforced by the silence, it was almost eerie in its effect.

With a sigh, Raistlin reached for one of the other two books that the master mage had set aside for him, the one with a wrinkly cover and crumbly pages. Immediately he realized it was a geography tome, studded with detailed maps of the many familiar as well as obscure regions of Ansalon. There were crude climate charts, topography and elevation references, and soil descriptions, all of it painstakingly hand sketched and coded in colors.

Although not nearly as thick as the numbers book, this one, too, was hard slogging, and Raist turned the pages ever more slowly as time went on, and still the master mage did not return. By the end of another hour, Raistlin had finished the second book. After glancing around the room, which had become latticed with shadows, Raistlin diligently reached for the third and last book in front of him.

This one had a heavy cowhide cover that was banded with iron, and Raist had to use both hands to open it up. Inside, the vellum was very thin, its texture very fine, and upon it someone had transcribed an early history of the Silvanesti nation in tiny, elegant script. The penmanship crowded the margins, and the long, meticulous chronicle was divided into three equal and successive columns on each page.

The bleary-eyed little boy began to read the ancient history. Raist grew interested. He knew little about the tragic history of the elven race, and there were not so many pages really. But the writing was so minuscule and the ink so faded that he had to strain his eyes against the dying light. It wasn't long before his brave energy wilted and his head sagged down on the table. He was asleep.

Damp, clinging mists swirled up around Raist s chair. He was no longer in the library. Voices seemed to be whispering, just out of his hearing. Suddenly his mother appeared. "Come with me, dear," invited Rosamun. "I will be your guide."

The boy reached out eagerly to take her extended hand. The instant their fingers touched, however, Rosamun was transformed into a terrifying slime-covered creature that sucked Raistlin to its chest with an irresistible force. Panicked, he was enveloped in ooze. Desperately he fought against the suffocating sensation, struggling for air, gulping mouthfuls of the sickening stuff. He was drowning in slime!

Just as suddenly it evaporated. Now Raistlin was back home, perched on his mother's bed. He was in fact sharing her body, seeing with her eyes, breathing her tremulous breaths.

Kitiara was getting dinner ready. Caramon was idly flipping twigs into the fireplace. Gilon came in. Only it wasn't Gilon. This creature had horns and a huge head. It towered over Kitiara, brushing against the ceiling. A minotaur, Raist realized with a shudder.

It stormed to Rosamun's side. She screamed and tried to fight the beast-man off as he neatly trussed her-and Raist, in her body-in sheets. Kit and Caramon didn't appear to care or even to notice. While Rosamun screeched in protest, the minotaur carried her under its arm to the front door and heaved her to the ground.

Abruptly Raist was outside his mother's body and pulling himself up by the window ledge to peer inside the cottage. He saw the minotaur and Kit nod to each other conspiratorially. Looking more closely at his older sister, Raist saw that she looked different, changed. She was covered in armor made up of shimmering blue scales. When she opened her mouth, flames shot out. Around her waist was a scabbard with the wooden sword her father had bequeathed her. Only when she drew it forth, it was wooden no longer. The solid metal gleamed in the firelight. With her fearful sword, Kit advanced on the oblivious Caramon.

Raist clung to the window ledge, fascinated, unable to act. Finally he began pounding at the window with one arm, yelling a warning at his twin. Caramon didn't look up as Kit raised the sword above his head. Rosamun's shrieking could be heard behind him still. With horror, Raist watched Kit bring the sword down, slicing off Caramon's head. The bloody thing rolled toward the window, its eyes finally gaping at Raist. Calmly, with sorrow not rancor, Caramon's head asked, "Brother, why didn't you warn me?"

The words pierced Raistlin's heart. He collapsed on the ground, sobbing.

Raistlin jerked awake. He had fallen asleep! Flushed with humiliation, Raist's eyes swept the room, seeing with some relief that he was still alone.

It must be nearly suppertime, when Gilon and Kitiara would be coming back to get him. At least three hours had passed without a clue as to the whereabouts of the master mage. Where could Morath have gone for so long? And what was Raist supposed to do now?

All was silence. The library was virtually dark now, only a pale glow of light fell from above, illuminating the center of the room, slanting westward across part of the table. Opposite from where Raist sat, near Morath's chair, the light shone on the book that the master mage had picked out and set aside for himself.

Eyeing that book, Raist wondered what wisdom it contained. Drumming his fingers, the little boy reached across the table and, after standing on his chair, managed to tug the book closer to himself so that he could make out the words on its cover.

The History of the Present Up to the Moment, As Set Down by Astinus, said the auspicious lettering on the front.

The history of the present! Raist wondered how that could be and what this unusual book might say. He wondered about it so much, he was practically on fire with curiosity. But he sat there for another ten minutes without moving in the slightest.

Then, hearing and seeing nobody, Raistlin stood on the chair again and leaned across the table, touching the cover. He fingered the spine of the book, felt the raised lettering of its title, and caressed the crisp edge of its pages. His face had a intense, almost rapturous expression, as if he was concentrating on receiving some message through his fingertips.

"Ahem."

Raist was startled by the voice behind him and whirled to see the master mage standing there, frowning. Raistlin had not heard the library doors open and close, or Morath come in. The master mage carried with him a flickering globe that bathed the library in dancing yellow light. He glided around to his chair and sat down, putting down the globe, then pointedly reached across to bring the Present History back to his side of the table.

"What have you been doing?" Morath demanded.

"Well," began Raist uncomfortably, sliding back into his chair and looking up into Morath's fierce black eyes staring at him. "I finished the book with all the numbers and equations in it about two hours ago, so I started to read the other two books you brought out for me, the ones about geography and elven history. I finished them, too, and then-" Raist's voice faltered "-I think I fell asleep for a few minutes."

"Asleep!" Morath boomed indignantly.

"For a few minutes," Raist repeated softly.

There was a long ominous silence while each waited for the other to say something else.

"I think," said Raist, after a long pause, "that I managed to memorize a good deal of all three books. I suppose I can answer almost any question that is taken from them. If that is the object of the task…" His voice trailed off, losing confidence under Morath's stare.

"No," said Morath, cutting him off harshly. "I mean, what have you been doing with this book?" He gestured angrily, indicating the chronicle by Astinus. "This most precious volume is intended only for far-seeing eyes and deep-thinking scholars-not for students, certainly not for children. This book was not offered to you because it is mine alone."

Morath's eyes stayed fixed on him, and little Raist, for once cowed, lowered his.

"I did not open it," said Raist apologetically.

"You were reading it!" accused Morath.

"I was not," said Raist, looking up, surprised.

"Come, come, boy. What were you doing then?" asked the master mage sarcastically. His eyes were watching Raist.

"I was feeling it, touching it," said Raist, once again holding his gaze level.

"Feeling it, touching it!" derided Morath.

"Yes," said Raist, more confidently. "Touching it!"

"May I ask why?"

A pause. "I don't know why," Raistlin said at last. "I knew that you had set it aside for yourself and that I shouldn't read it, but I wanted, at least, to feel it and touch it. I didn't see the harm."

"You had no business," declared Morath.

Raist bit his lip, angry and overcome with frustration. After all the hard work and long hours, to fail at this, this unexpected test of restraint! It was all he could do to keep from breaking down and crying. But like his sister Kitiara, Raist would not cry, not in front of this hardhearted master mage. Raist wouldn't give Morath the satisfaction.

"All right, boy, the day is done. Your father and sister are here. I'll thank you not to waste any more of my time."

"Yes, your son is gifted, but I question whether his constitution can withstand the rigors of our program here. Indeed, the boy was so exhausted after the lessons of the afternoon that he fell asleep at his books."

Morath spoke firmly. He and Gilon were at the table in the library, which was now quite dark and lit only by the flickering globe in front of the master mage.

Gilon steeled himself. "He may not be strong in body," Raistlin's father replied steadfastly, "but he is strong-willed, and this is what he truly wants. In all honesty, the lad would not be fit for a vocation that demanded physical prowess. Yet for him, magic is no whim. If you do not accept him, we will go elsewhere and try to find someone who will tutor him. I have made inquiries, and I understand that a mage named Petroc runs an excellent school near Haven."

This was half a bluff on Gilon's part, but a shrewd one. He judged Morath would not want to turn his back on the possible reflected glory of training an exceptional pupil, even such a young one.

A rustle of turning pages interrupted the conversation. Raistlin was in a dark corner, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of one of the bookshelves, with a slim volume on his lap. Morath started when he saw what Raistlin was doing.

He crossed the room quickly and snatched the book from Raist's hands. "Young man, I thought you had learned a lesson about playing with books that were not given to you, especially spellbooks!"

Raistlin looked up at him coolly. "I wasn't playing with it. I was reading it."

A shocked silence filled the room.

"I was reading the 'Spell for Changing Water Into Sand'," the boy continued defiantly, satisfied at the look of amazement that crossed Morath's face. "You can reject me as a pupil. But I won't miss this opportunity to read one of your precious spellbooks!"

Morath flushed an angry shade. Gilon, in a rare display of temper, pointed toward the door. "That's enough, Raist. Go wait outside with your sister."

When Gilon turned back, the master mage had controlled his rage. Morath was leafing through a richly embroidered book, small in size, and scanning various hand-inked lists and schedules.

"He can start at the beginning of the new week," said the master mage matter-of-factly, taking up a feather pen and formally inscribing Raistlin's name on the roll of students.

Gilon's mouth gaped. No matter Raistlin's certain abilities, his father had come to think he wouldn't be able to gain a place in this vaunted school. His jaws worked but no words came out.

"How will you pay?" asked Morath, scarcely noticing Gilon's struggle to speak when he looked up after inscribing Raistlin's name on the ledger.

Pay? This was something the woodsman could fathom.

"Well, your lordship," said Gilon, not certain how to address a master mage, but certain he didn't want to insult him. "I am a woodcutter by trade, as I mentioned earlier

today. And our means are modest. I was hoping that I could keep up with any, er, tuition, by bringing you cut wood for use here at the school. Or I might provide other such services, in fair trade. People in town will tell you that I am honest with my barter, and my accounts are always paid."

"Pah!" snorted Morath. "What do I want with bundles of firewood? I can snap my fingers like this-" he lifted his hands and demonstrated "-and have all the wood I need. Not just local wood, but rare and exotic varieties from all over Krynn. Wood!"

The master mage glared at Gilon, whose face was flushed. Once again the woodsman found that his mouth was not working very well while his arms felt useless dangling at his sides.

"Pah!" repeated Morath, turning back to his book and scribbling something further next to Raistlin's name. "I will carry the boy on scholarship for a while," added the master mage irritably. "And we will see if he is worth the bother."

Before Gilon could think how to respond, Morath had swept out of the room, slipping behind a door that the woodcutter had not noticed before, behind one of the towering bookshelves. Because he had taken the flickering globe with him, instantly the library was plunged into gloomy darkness. A little dazed by everything that had transpired, Gilon backed toward the double doors that led to the long entrance corridor, bowing once or twice in the direction of the vanished mage, just in case.

Little Raist was so worn-out that Kit could not tell, from his drained expression, whether he at all understood what Gilon, bursting with smiles, told him. Indeed the aspiring mage could not walk and was fast asleep in his father's arms before they had traveled several hundred yards away from Poolbottom toward Solace.

Home was more than an hour's hike away, but Gilon carried his burden stoically, his heart light with relief. It was a clear night, a momentous occasion, and neither Kit nor Gilon felt like speaking and breaking the mood.

In truth, Kit was elated, too. Her bad temper had been whisked away by the news of Raist's acceptance. As she trudged along, herself weary, her thoughts raced.

Raist never woke up that night, and Kit skipped the supper Rosamun had prepared and kept warm. Up in her niche, the young girl stayed awake, thinking. She knew now what she would do-catch up to Ursa and convince him to take her with him. Raist's acceptance into the mage school meant that she did not have to worry about him as much any more. About Caramon, Kit was confident in his abilities as a warrior. In short, she was free to leave.

Kitiara decided to say nothing to Gilon or Rosamun about her planned departure, nor, after thinking it over, to Caramon either.

The next morning, talking over the previous day's events, Kit told Raistlin where she was going. But she made him promise not to tell anyone, even after she had gone.

It was as if Raist knew before he was told. "Will you come back?" he asked. The six-year-old's voice was steady, but Kit could see tears glistening in his eyes. She felt as if a hand were squeezing her heart.

"I imagine," she said noncommittally, "I'll have to come back and see how my little brothers are doing!" His eyes accused her. "I have to do this, Raist. I can't spend my life in this cottage, this town. I won't. You understand."

Two nights later, with light from Solinari and Lunitari flooding the cottage, Kit crept quietly down the ladder from her loft. The usual night sounds greeted her as she surveyed the common room. Gilon's gentle snoring and Rosamun's occasional moan or sigh came from their chamber.

She tiptoed over to where the twins slept. Caramon, imitative of his father, snorted as he dreamed. Raist, his face almost serene in repose, lay quietly. Fighting her feelings, Kit tucked the bedclothes up under each twin's chin.

Kitiara did not look back as she walked across the floor and opened the door into the shimmering, moonlit night.