"That's it! That's it! Can't you see?" Raist demanded with obvious exasperation.

Coming closer, Kit and Gilon saw what Raistlin meant: the pale stonework facade of an entrance so artfully blended in with its surroundings as to be almost invisible to passers-by. With such subterfuge, the master mage both ensured his school's exclusivity and protected his students against potential acts of ill will from a local population that, like most sensible people on Krynn, viewed magic with skepticism, mistrust, or plain hostility.

Gilon's upturned face showed how impressed the woodcutter was with the unusual site. For his part, Raist betrayed no awe. If anything, the child wore a smug expression, as if nothing would surprise him about this place.

The mage school was built into the hill, camouflaged by rocks and the sparse vegetation that clung to them. Parts of the edifice could be glimpsed, close up, between the boulders and scrub. Kitiara looked up and saw something that made her wonder how she had missed it before. At regular intervals, ducks and other water fowl were alighting on top of the rocky hill, which led her to think there must be some sort of concealed pond there.

As they stopped a few yards away, they heard a low rumbling and, with amazing fluidity, the massive front door swung open. Someone had opened it without the slightest signal from them! Following Raist inside, Kit had to elbow Gilon, whose mouth was impolitely agape. The door boomed shut behind them.

They found themselves at the head of a corridor sided with smooth alabaster that gently spiraled upward in a clockwise direction. The corridor had no obvious light source. Illumination seemed to emanate from the pale, gray stone itself. Raistlin was already walking ahead. Gilon and Kit hastened to keep up. The winding hallway was lined with iron doors, all tightly shut, but Raistlin passed them by without so much as a glance. He seemed certain of his destination.

They continued up the spiraling corridor for ten minutes, passing twenty-seven doors by Kit's reckoning. At last they came to the top-or at least to the end of the curious hallway. In front of them stood an impressive set of double iron doors, the black metal decorated with runes and elaborate scrollwork.

Kit found herself holding back and drawing closer to Gilon. Her little brother had reached the doors first, but seemed reluctant to knock. He stood in front of them, leaning forward slightly, straining to perceive what waited for him beyond. It was left to Gilon, who stepped up next to his son a few seconds later, to knock forthrightly.

Kit waited, fidgeting impatiently, no longer out of any nervousness, but because she was getting annoyed at whoever or whatever was putting them through this rigmarole. It was all quite obviously designed to intimidate visitors.

The three of them-a roughly dressed, burly woodcutter; a young, undersized six-year-old; and this slender teenager with her dark cap of curly hair-waited with varying attitudes, but with one feeling in common, impatience. For a long time the inner door, unlike the outer, showed no response to their presence.

Finally the iron hinges creaked and the double door swung inward. Gilon, Raist, and Kitiara stepped forward into a large circular room without any windows or lamplight. Every inch of the walls was lined with shelves, and the shelves groaned with books-hundreds of portentous, leather-bound tomes; hundreds more ordinary volumes with numerical indices; one entire wall of slim pamphlets and sheaves of neatly ordered essays; another wall of yellowed, crumbling manuscripts, stacked and tied neatly in ribbons; and rows upon rows upon more rows of diaries and journals.

Hazy light filtered in through a translucent, domed ceiling. Not until she gazed upward and saw a pikeshead swim by outside, tailfin wiggling, did Kit realize that this room lay beneath the pond at the top of the camouflaged hill.

An immense wooden table stood in the center of the room, a hooded figure seated behind it, waiting. The hood that shadowed his face was the color of the bleached boulders strewn over his hill, which as any youngster on Krynn knew, was a sign that the master mage was aligned with the forces of good.

Abruptly the mage slipped off his hood, revealing steel gray, close-cropped hair and beard. Black eyes glinted at the visitors.

"I am Morath. I ought to bid you welcome to my humble repository of learning, except that you have arrived without invitation and-" here Morath sighed, wearily flicking one of his hands "-I have no idle time to waste on uninvited guests. So instead I bid you state your business and go."

Gilon squared his shoulders and stepped forward.

"If you please, sir, I am Gilon Majere of nearby Solace. I wish to enter my son, Raistlin Majere, in your school of magic, whose reputation is well known in this vicinity. I know he is rather young, but he has already shown both interest and aptitude for your art. When he was not quite five, he was able to learn and copy the tricks a traveling magician performed at the Red Moon Fair."

Gilon's confidence had soared as he gave his little speech. By the end, he was fairly glowing with fatherly enthusiasm.

"Well!" With noticeable sarcasm, Morath hurled the word in Gilon's direction, ignoring the small child standing near his father. "Copied some roving trickster, did he? A prodigy, is he? No, I think not. I beg to differ. Mere sleight of hand has nothing to do with true magic. A ready pupil would know that."

The master mage had turned his gaze on Raistlin's pale, oval face. Unflinching, Raist returned the stare. Kit admired her little brother's temerity.

Raistlin had been chattering about magic off and on over the past year, asking questions Kit often was unable to answer. He had brought the subject up with anyone within earshot, even his mother. Kit knew Raistlin felt proud of the simple illusions he had managed to pick up. She knew that he was fascinated by the possibilities and power of greater magic. And she despised this mage for treating him like a clod.

As she had once fought to save his life as a newborn, now Kit concentrated on mentally supporting her little brother in this uneven contest of wills. She couldn't be sure, but she thought she detected a hint of curiosity in Morath's stern expression as Raist refused to back down and continued to meet his piercing gaze.

"Even if it were proof of anything," Morath went on matter-of-factly, "I require all applicants to be at least eight years of age and to be able to read difficult and obscure texts with ease. This is not a school for reading fundamentals. This boy is too small. Too young. He would lag behind the others, some of whom are already, in many ways, young men."

Gilon was about to respond, when Raistlin piped up in his own defense. "I can read," he said simply. "I can read anything."

Morath looked annoyed. He rose from his seat and strode to a nearby shelf, pausing for a moment before pulling out one of the larger, more auspicious tomes. He handed it to Raistlin, who staggered briefly under its weight. The six-year-old sat down on the floor, cross-legged, with the book straddling his lap. Then he looked up at the master mage for instructions.

"Turn to the third chapter," Morath commanded, "and start reading the fourth paragraph down. Proper enunciation, please."

With some difficulty, Raistlin opened the musty book and turned to its lengthy table of contents. Completely absorbed in his task, he ran his finger down the table, located the chapter's page number, and turned to it. Again he used his finger to find the paragraph, then began reading in his reedy voice.

"A mage turns his body into a conductor of energy streams and currents from all zones of existence. Through correct incantations, he is able to draw in certain forces or combination of forces, and then to reshape and redirect them as he wishes …"