"You suppose so?" Antimodes repeated sharply, disappointed. "Don't you know what you want?"

"I never thought about it," Raistlin replied, shrugging his thin shoulders in a gesture remarkably similar to that of his more robust twin. "About going to school, I mean. I didn't even know there were schools to study magic. I just thought magic was a. a-" he searched for the phrase-"a part of you. Like eyes or toes."

The fingers of the god hammered on Antimodes's soul. But he needed more information. He had to be sure.

"Tell me, Raistlin, is anyone in your family a mage? I'm not prying," Antimodes explained, seeing a pained expression contort the child's face. "It's just that we've found that the art is most often transmitted through the blood."

Raistlin licked his lips. His gaze dropped, fixed on his hands. The fingers, slender and agile for one so young, curled inward. "My mother," he said in a flat voice. "She sees things. Things far away. She sees other parts of the world. She watches what the elves are doing and the dwarves beneath the mountain."

"She's a seer," said Antimodes.

Raistlin shrugged again. "Most people think she's crazy." He lifted his gaze in defiance, ready to defend his mother. When he found Antimodes regarding him with sympathy, the boy relaxed and the words flowed out, as if a vein were cut open.

"She forgets to eat sometimes. Well, not forgets exactly. It's like she's eating somewhere else. And she doesn't do work around the house, but that's because she's not really in the house. She's visiting wonderful places, seeing wonderful, beautiful things. I know," Raistlin continued, "because when she comes back, she's sad. As if she didn't want to come back. She looks at us like she doesn't know us sometimes."

"Does she talk about what she's seen?" Antimodes asked gently.

"To me, a little," the boy answered. "But not much. It makes my father unhappy, and my sister. well, you've seen Kit. She doesn't have any patience with what she calls Mother's 'fits.' So I can't blame Mother for leaving us," Raistlin continued, his voice so soft that Antimodes had to lean forward to hear the child. "I'd go with her if I could. And we'd never come back here. Never."

Antimodes sipped his drink, using the mead as an excuse to keep silent until he had regained control of his anger. It was an old story, one he'd seen time and again. This poor woman was no different from countless others. She had been born with the art, but her talent was denied, probably ridiculed, certainly discouraged by family members who thought all magic-users were demon spawn. Instead of receiving the training and discipline that would have taught her how to use the art to her benefit and that of others, she was stifled, smothered. What had been a gift had become a curse. If she were not already insane, she soon would be.

There was no longer a chance to save her. There was yet a chance to save her son. "What work does your father do?" Antimodes asked.

"He's a woodcutter," Raistlin answered. Now that they had shifted topics, he was more at ease. His hands flattened on the table. "He's big, like Caramon. My father works really hard. We don't see him much." The child didn't appear overly distressed by this fact.

He was silent a moment, then said, his brow furrowed with the seriousness of his thought process, "This school. It isn't far away, is it? I mean, I wouldn't like to leave Mother for very long. And then there's Caramon. Like he said, we're twins. We take care of each other."

I'm going to be leaving sometime soon, the sister had said. My little brothers will have to fend for themselves when I'm gone.

Antimodes clasped hands with the god, gave Solinari's hand a deal-clinching shake. "There is a school quite close by. It is located about five miles to the west in a secluded wood. Most people have no idea it is even there. Five miles is not a long walk for a grown man, but it is quite a hike for a small boy, back and forth every day. Many students board there, especially those who come from distant parts of Ansalon. It would be my suggestion that you do the same. The school is only in session eight months out of the year. The master takes the summer months off to spend at the Tower of Wayreth. You could be with your family during that time. I would have to talk to your father, though. He is the one who must enroll you. Do you think he will approve?"

"Father won't care," Raistlin said. "He'll be relieved, I think. He's afraid that I'll end up like Mother." The child's pale cheeks were suddenly stained red. "Unless it costs a lot of money. Then I couldn't do it."

"As to the money"-Antimodes had already made up his mind on that point-"we wizards take care of our own."

The child didn't quite understand this. "It couldn't be charity," Raistlin said. "Father wouldn't like that at all."

"It's not charity," Antimodes said briskly. "We have funds set aside for deserving students. We help pay their tuition and other expenses. Can I meet with your father tonight? I could explain this to him then."

"Yes, he should be home tonight. The job's almost finished. I'll bring him here. It's hard for people to find our house sometimes after dark," Raistlin said apologetically.

Of course it is, Antimodes said silently, his heart wrenched with pity. A sad, unhappy, slovenly kept house, a lonely house. It hides among the shadows and guards its dark secret.

The child was so thin, so weak. A good strong gust of wind would flatten his frail frame. Magic might well be the shield that would protect this fragile person, become the staff upon which he could lean when he was weak or weary. Or the magic might become a monster, sucking the life from the thin body, leaving a dry, desiccated husk. Antimodes might well be starting this boy on the path that would lead to an early death.

"Why do you stare at me?" the child asked curiously.

Antimodes gestured for Raistlin to leave his chair and come stand directly in front of him. Reaching out, Antimodes took hold of the boy's hands. The youngster flinched and started to squirm away.

He doesn't like to be touched, Antimodes realized, but he maintained his hold on the boy. He wanted to emphasize his words with his flesh, his muscle, his bone. He wanted the boy to feel the words as well as hear them.

"Listen to me, Raistlin," Antimodes said, and the boy quieted and held still. He realized that this conversation was not mat of an adult talking down to a child. It was one equal speaking to another. "The magic will not solve your problems. It will only add to them. The magic "will not make people like you. It will increase their distrust. The magic will not ease your pain. It will twist and burn inside you until sometimes you think that even death would be preferable."

Antimodes paused, holding fast to the child's hands that were hot and dry, as if he were running a fever. The archmage was ranging about mentally for a means of explanation this young boy might understand. The distant ringing tap of the blacksmith's shop, rising up from the street below, provided the metaphor.

"A mage's soul is forged in the crucible of the magic," Anti-modes said. "You choose to go voluntarily into the fire. The blaze might well destroy you. But if you survive, every blow of the hammer will serve to shape your being. Every drop of water wrung from you will temper and strengthen your soul. Do you understand?"

"I understand," said the boy.

"Do you have any question for me, Raistlin?" Antimodes asked, tightening his grip. "Any question at all?"

The boy hesitated, considering. He was not reluctant to speak. He was wondering how to phrase his need.

"My father says that before mages can work their magic, they are taken to a dark and horrible place where they must fight terrible monsters. My father says that sometimes the mages die in that place. Is that true?"