"You can put your shirt down now!" he snapped at Caramon, nervousness making him irritable. "Where do you want us?" Sturm asked.

"You and the kender go to the very back wall," Raistlin said, pointing to the upper tiers of seats in the arena. He gave them their final instructions. "Tas, when I shout 'Behold,' you start walking down the aisle. Walk slowly and keep your mind on what you're doing. Don't allow yourself to get distracted by anything, do you understand? If you obey me, you will see such wonderful magic as you've never seen in your entire life."

"I will, Raistlin," Tas promised. " 'Behold.' " He repeated the word several times, in order not to forget it. " 'Behold, behold, behold.' I saw a beholder once. Did I ever tell you-"

"No kender allowed," said a blue-robed priest, descending on them.

Unable and unwilling to lie, Sturm stood with his hand on the kender's shoulder. Raistlin's breath caught in his throat. He dared not intervene, dared not draw attention to himself. Fortunately for all of them, Tasslehoff was accustomed to being thrown out of places.

"Oh, he's just escorting me off now, sir," the kender said with a beaming smile.

"Is that true?"

Sturm, his mustaches bristling, inclined his head the merest fraction, the closest he had come in his entire life to telling a falsehood. Perhaps the Measure sanctioned lies in a good cause.

"Then I'm sorry for interfering with you, sir," said the priest in mollifying tones. "Please don't let me keep you from your task. The doors are in that direction." He waved his hand.

Sturm bowed coldly and dragged Tasslehoff away, shushing the kender's remarks with a stern "Silence!" and a shake of the small shoulder to emphasize the point.

Raistlin drew breath again.

"Where to?" Caramon asked, peering over the heads of the crowd.

"Somewhere near the front."

"Keep close behind me," Caramon advised.

Thrusting out with his elbows, he shouldered and jostled and eventually cleared a path through the throng. People scowled, but on noting his size, they kept any angry remarks they had been about to make to themselves.

The lower seats near the arena were filled. There was perhaps room for one person-and that a small person-at the end of the aisle. "Watch this," Caramon said to his brother with a wink.

Caramon plunked himself down on the empty seat, shifting and bumping his body against that of his neighbor, a wealthy woman, finely dressed, who glared at him. Coldly and pointedly, she moved away from his touch. Raistlin was wondering what this was going to accomplish, for there was still no room for him, when Caramon suddenly let out a great belch and then noisily passed gas.

People in the vicinity grimaced, regarded Caramon with disgust. The woman beside him clapped her hand over her nose and glared at Caramon, who gave a shamefaced grin.

"Beans for dinner," he said.

The woman rose to her feet. Sweeping her silk skirts, she favored him with a scathing glance and the comment, "Clod! I can't think why they permit your kind in here! I shall certainly protest!" She flounced off up the stairs, searching for one of the priests.

Caramon waved his brother to come sit down in the empty place beside him.

"I had not realized you could be so subtle, my brother," Raistlin murmured as he took his seat.

"Yeah, that's me! Subtle!" Caramon chuckled.

Raistlin searched the crowd and soon located Sturm, standing in the shadow of a pillar near an aisle. Tasslehoff was not visible, Sturm had probably stashed the kender in the shadows.

Sturm had been searching for Raistlin as well. Sighting him, Sturm gave a brief nod, jerked his thumb. A small hand shot out from behind Sturm's back, waved. Kender and knight were in position.

Raistlin turned to face the arena. He had no difficulty at ail finding his sister. Kitiara stood in the pen in front of the arena, alongside the others who had been invited to speak to their dead kin.

As if aware of his gaze upon her, Kit grinned her crooked grin. Raistlin realized with some bitterness that she was calm, relaxed, even having fun.

He was not.

When the last stragglers had been hurried to their seats, the doors shut. The Temple grew dark. Fire sprang up from the braziers on the arena floor. The chanting began. The priests and priestess entered, bearing the charmed vipers in the baskets. Soon Judith would make her entrance. Raistlin's moment to act was fast approaching.

He was terrified. He knew very well what ailed him, recognized the symptoms-stage fright.

Raistlin had experienced stage fright before, but only very mildly, prior to his performances at the small fairs in Solace. The fear had always vanished the moment he began his act, and he had not worried about it.

He had never before performed to an audience of this size, an audience that must be considered hostile. He had never performed for stakes this large. His fear was a hundredfold greater than anything he'd previously experienced.

His hands were chilled to the bone, the fingers so stiff he did not think he could move them enough to draw the scroll from the case. His bowels gripped, and he thought for one horrible moment that he was going to be forced to leave to go find the privies. His mouth dried up. He could not speak a word. How was he to cast the spell if he couldn't talk? His body was drenched in sweat, he shivered with chills. His stomach heaved.

His performance was going to end in ignominy and shame, with him being sick all over himself.

The High Priest began his introduction. Raistlin didn't pay heed. He sat hunched over, miserable and deathly ill.

High Priestess Judith appeared in her blue robes. She was making her welcoming speech to the audience. Raistlin couldn't hear the words for the roaring in his ears. The time was fast approaching. Caramon was looking at him expectantly. Somewhere in the darkness, Kit was watching him. Sturm was waiting for his signal, so was Tasslehoff. They were waiting for him, counting on him, depending on him. They would understand his failure. They would be kind, never reproach him. They would pity him.

Judith had lowered her arms. The sleeves cascaded down around her hands. She was preparing to cast the spell.

Raistlin fumbled at the scroll case, forcing his numb fingers to unfasten the lid. He drew forth the scroll, his hand shaking so he nearly dropped it. Panicked, afraid he would lose it in the darkness and not be able to recover it, he clenched his fist over it.

Slowly, trembling, Raistlin cast off his black cloak, rose to his feet. His neighbors glared at him in irritation. Someone behind him hissed loudly for him to sit down. When he didn't, more voices were raised. The commotion caused others to look in his direction, including one of the priests in the arena.

Raistlin searched his mind frantically for his carefully worded, oft-rehearsed speech. He couldn't recall any of it. Dazed by debilitating fear, he unrolled the scroll and looked at it, hoping it might give him some clue.

The letters of the magical words glowed faintly, pleasantly, as if they had been illuminated, the brush tipped with fire. The warmth of the magic spread from the scroll through his chilled fingers and brought with it reassurance. He possessed the ability to cast the spell, the skill to wield the magic. He would work his will on these people, hold them under his sway.

The knowledge enflamed him. An updraft of power consumed his fear.

His voice, when he spoke, was unfamiliar. Generally soft-spoken, he had not expected to sound so strong. He pitched his voice to where the acoustics would best amplify his words, and the result was dramatic. He startled even himself.

"Citizens of Haven," he called, "friends and neighbors. I stand before you to warn you that you are being duped!"