Morath watched Raist intently. Kit thought the master mage was contriving to conceal his reaction. The ranks of mages were thin enough these days; she imagined he could ill afford to turn away any pupil. Yet magic-users were notoriously arrogant and did not act out of necessity or logic. Morath's criteria would have to be met. Resolutely, Raist read on.

"That's enough," Morath said curtly, snatching the book out of the boys hands and replacing it on the shelf.

Interrupted in midsentence, Raist looked up, startled. His eyes were wide with irritation, Kit could tell. She knew her look-alike eyes betrayed the same reaction. Gilon was off to one side, his big hands dangling awkwardly at his sides, silent and unsure as to how to act.

Morath circled the wide room, his face fraught with annoyance. He fingered certain books as he brushed up against the shelves. Deep in concentration, he virtually ignored the three visitors who tensely awaited his next move. Kit and Gilon looked at each other uncertainly.

The filtered sunlight from above bathed the master mage in a golden glow as he passed Kit. For a moment, before his stern features came under shadow again, Kit had a less fearsome impression of Morath.

"Answer me this," the master mage said suddenly, turning to address Raistlin who was still sitting cross-legged on the floor. Raist stood expectantly. "What do you suppose is the nickname of this place, a name I am not supposed to know but which is used, familiarly, by all the aspiring mages behind my back?

A sliver of a smile, not altogether unfriendly in its effect, played on Morath's lips as he bent in Raistlin's direction.

"Why it's the mage school, that's all," blurted out Gilon.

Kitiara shot her stepfather a withering glance. Gilon's face wilted, realizing he had blundered.

"No, no," said Morath contemptuously. "Let the boy answer."

A moment of silence followed, as Morath's eyes met Raistlin's. Again, the little boy did not flinch, but withstood the master mage's direct gaze.

"There's nothing fancy about it, nothing secret," said Morath with mock congeniality. "But only those who are privileged to study here learn of it. Concentrate, boy. Take a guess. Or do you give up?"

Old Hilltop, Kitiara guessed to herself.

Raistlin took his time before responding. "Hilltop would be the obvious choice," he said finally, speaking slowly, "and-"

"Wrong! Wrong!" cackled Morath, straightening up. He was a trifle obvious in his glee.

"You didn't let me finish!" snapped Raistlin, raising his voice most disrespectfully. Gilon winced. Kitiara had to repress a smile.

"And that is why, I was saying, they probably invented some name like Poolbottom or Drywater. I don't see why it's important, or much of a test," Raist finished sulkily.

"It's not important!" Morath snapped back, raising his voice and baring his teeth. "I didn't say it was important!"

The master mage swirled his robe and retreated to the double iron doors with an angry flourish. "You may leave now," he commanded.

Their faces glum, the three trooped toward the entrance, but Morath stepped in front of Raist, who was last, blocking his movement.

"Not you," he said decisively. When the others looked at him for some explanation, Morath said with obvious pique, "It is Poolbottom. Poolbottom! Stupid name. If a six-year-old can guess it, then it may as well be Dungdeep!"

With a shrug, the master mage yanked a pullcord that hung next to the doors. One of the massive bookshelves swung open like a sluice gate to reveal an annex tucked behind it, rectangular and sparsely furnished with a modest table and two ordinary chairs. Paper and writing implements rested on the table, along with a couple of books.

Morath turned Raistlin around and gave him a push toward the small interior room. He turned back to Gilon and Kit, who were boggle-eyed.

"I need to conduct a more detailed examination," Morath announced authoritatively. "Return at dusk." Unceremoniously, the master mage slammed the double doors in their faces.

Kit was fuming. "Who does that gully dwarf of a wizard think he is? I don't think we should leave Raist here."

But most of this was muttered helplessly, for Gilon had firmly grasped his stepdaughter by the arm and steered her down the winding corridor and out of the mage school called Poolbottom at a rapid pace.

"It will be a good thing for Raistlin to learn this ancient art," Gilon said gently, letting go of her outside. "It means a lot to him. To that end we can afford to ignore Morath's inhospitality. Let's use this time to visit the fair back in Solace."

Kit glared around at nothing in particular before shrugging. In truth, spending half a day on her own would be a treat. Her mood started to lift the minute she put one foot in front of the other, walking toward Solace and this year's Red Moon Fair.

At a small rise, she paused and turned back to look at the mage school. She was not surprised that she could barely make out the shape of the white, rocky hill, which was almost invisible under the glare of the late morning sun.

Kit looked at Gilon, standing alongside her, not speaking. He was not at all like her real father. Despite that, and despite the fact she had no respect for woodcutting and no liking for the humdrum life Gilon lived, Kit appreciated her stepfather's solicitude for the twins. And she appreciated the fact that he had never tried to boss her around. Gilon was not, when all was said and done, entirely stupid.

Sighing deeply, Kit said, in pinched tones that perfectly mimicked the mage's, "Poolbottom! Might as well be Dungdeep!"

Kit turned her roguish grin on Gilon, and they both started laughing.

The day was perfect. The outlines of trees stripped bare by the winter winds were already feathered with a faint, pure green. Kitiara and Gilon kept a companionable silence as they headed for the fairgrounds on the north edge of Solace. The sound reached them first, like the energetic hum of some elaborate gnome creation. Then they topped the crest of a hill and saw the brightly colored flags and tents.

The festival grounds started just off the road about a mile beyond the foot of the hill where they stood. It spread out from there like a small town, with grassy promenades lined with tents and booths instead of houses. Scattered throughout were small clearings where the various demonstrations and entertainments took place.

As she and Gilon started down the road, Kit scanned the crowd approaching the grounds, ever hopeful that she would spot a dark, curly-haired man who stood a head taller than most, and who, when he saw his daughter after all these years, would beam with paternal pride.

Instead, she spied a black-robed mage gliding through the throng, easy enough to spot given the way people made way for him. She saw a kender family, the father puzzling over a map, the mother watching her little girl with pride. Kit smiled to herself as she observed the little one, who was jumping up and down and clapping her hands at every new sight, picking up stones, pieces of paper-and a shiny bauble here and there, whether or not it was somebody else's property.

Complex, savory smells wafted from several nearby booths. It was not yet midday, but the early morning trek had left Kit with a gnawing hunger. Her growling stomach distracted her from the sights and sounds. When she stopped to search her pack for any leftover crumbs of bread or cheese, Kit realized Gilon was no longer at her side. A minute later, he reappeared, carrying two steaming bowls of goat meat stew.

"I thought you might be hungry," Gilon said simply, handing her a bowl. Kit smiled at him in thanks, and they made their way out of the stream of people to a bench that sat in the shade of an oak tree.

"I thought I'd find you at the festival, but I expected it would be at the sword-fighting exhibition, not lazing under the shade of this old tree."