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."