Morath flushed an angry shade. Gilon, in a rare display of temper, pointed toward the door. "That's enough, Raist. Go wait outside with your sister."

When Gilon turned back, the master mage had controlled his rage. Morath was leafing through a richly embroidered book, small in size, and scanning various hand-inked lists and schedules.

"He can start at the beginning of the new week," said the master mage matter-of-factly, taking up a feather pen and formally inscribing Raistlin's name on the roll of students.

Gilon's mouth gaped. No matter Raistlin's certain abilities, his father had come to think he wouldn't be able to gain a place in this vaunted school. His jaws worked but no words came out.

"How will you pay?" asked Morath, scarcely noticing Gilon's struggle to speak when he looked up after inscribing Raistlin's name on the ledger.

Pay? This was something the woodsman could fathom.

"Well, your lordship," said Gilon, not certain how to address a master mage, but certain he didn't want to insult him. "I am a woodcutter by trade, as I mentioned earlier

today. And our means are modest. I was hoping that I could keep up with any, er, tuition, by bringing you cut wood for use here at the school. Or I might provide other such services, in fair trade. People in town will tell you that I am honest with my barter, and my accounts are always paid."

"Pah!" snorted Morath. "What do I want with bundles of firewood? I can snap my fingers like this-" he lifted his hands and demonstrated "-and have all the wood I need. Not just local wood, but rare and exotic varieties from all over Krynn. Wood!"

The master mage glared at Gilon, whose face was flushed. Once again the woodsman found that his mouth was not working very well while his arms felt useless dangling at his sides.

"Pah!" repeated Morath, turning back to his book and scribbling something further next to Raistlin's name. "I will carry the boy on scholarship for a while," added the master mage irritably. "And we will see if he is worth the bother."

Before Gilon could think how to respond, Morath had swept out of the room, slipping behind a door that the woodcutter had not noticed before, behind one of the towering bookshelves. Because he had taken the flickering globe with him, instantly the library was plunged into gloomy darkness. A little dazed by everything that had transpired, Gilon backed toward the double doors that led to the long entrance corridor, bowing once or twice in the direction of the vanished mage, just in case.

Little Raist was so worn-out that Kit could not tell, from his drained expression, whether he at all understood what Gilon, bursting with smiles, told him. Indeed the aspiring mage could not walk and was fast asleep in his father's arms before they had traveled several hundred yards away from Poolbottom toward Solace.

Home was more than an hour's hike away, but Gilon carried his burden stoically, his heart light with relief. It was a clear night, a momentous occasion, and neither Kit nor Gilon felt like speaking and breaking the mood.

In truth, Kit was elated, too. Her bad temper had been whisked away by the news of Raist's acceptance. As she trudged along, herself weary, her thoughts raced.

Raist never woke up that night, and Kit skipped the supper Rosamun had prepared and kept warm. Up in her niche, the young girl stayed awake, thinking. She knew now what she would do-catch up to Ursa and convince him to take her with him. Raist's acceptance into the mage school meant that she did not have to worry about him as much any more. About Caramon, Kit was confident in his abilities as a warrior. In short, she was free to leave.

Kitiara decided to say nothing to Gilon or Rosamun about her planned departure, nor, after thinking it over, to Caramon either.

The next morning, talking over the previous day's events, Kit told Raistlin where she was going. But she made him promise not to tell anyone, even after she had gone.

It was as if Raist knew before he was told. "Will you come back?" he asked. The six-year-old's voice was steady, but Kit could see tears glistening in his eyes. She felt as if a hand were squeezing her heart.

"I imagine," she said noncommittally, "I'll have to come back and see how my little brothers are doing!" His eyes accused her. "I have to do this, Raist. I can't spend my life in this cottage, this town. I won't. You understand."

Two nights later, with light from Solinari and Lunitari flooding the cottage, Kit crept quietly down the ladder from her loft. The usual night sounds greeted her as she surveyed the common room. Gilon's gentle snoring and Rosamun's occasional moan or sigh came from their chamber.

She tiptoed over to where the twins slept. Caramon, imitative of his father, snorted as he dreamed. Raist, his face almost serene in repose, lay quietly. Fighting her feelings, Kit tucked the bedclothes up under each twin's chin.

Kitiara did not look back as she walked across the floor and opened the door into the shimmering, moonlit night.

Kitiara caught up with the four men at their rendezvous point after midnight and easily followed them at a distance. They made camp an hour later, off the road. The next day Kit was ready for them when they headed out, pursuing them at a steady interval.

Their two-sectioned caravan had been progressing like that for three days now.

By day the sun burned brightly in the sky, casting a glow of warm color on the trees and rocks and earth. After sundown everything turned black and forbidding, and there was nothing to see except the shadows cast by the twin sentinels of the night, Lunitari and Solinari. The third moon, Nuitari, was invisible to all but the foulest evil creatures.

Ursa and his little band were obviously skirting the main highway, avoiding all towns and settlements while following a northeast course that was taking them toward the Eastwall Mountains. The open fields gave way to a dark fir forest as the land ascended. Gradually the foliage and pitch of the terrain had increased so that they could not cover more than twenty-five miles in a day.

In any case, Ursa and his men did not seem to be in much of a rush. They rode as steadily as they could during the late morning and afternoon, but camped early and never hurried to rise and get moving at first light.

One of the men rode a mule laden with pots and assorted supplies. The one called Radisson rode a common bay. The third, whose features were cloaked by a cowl, sat on a striking white stallion with a black muzzle. Ursa straddled his familiar gray.

Kit soon realized they were heading in the general direction of Silverhole, a shanty town of dwarven miners and itinerant workers. Yet they were maintaining an eastward drift that would place them below the town, in open, low mountain country. She could think of nothing in that area, only the occasional fief or landed estate. What could they be after near Silverhole? Although it was a mining center, there were no riches there, for the dwarves who specialized in such arduous jobs were said to be cutting stone and clearing the way for a mountain road. At the Red Moon Fair, Kit had overheard the mercenaries debate the kidnapping of a nobleman's son, but surely the miners counted no royalty among them.

Kitiara pondered what Ursa and his band were up to during the long hours she followed them. It was child's play to do so without being found out. Kitiara was a skilled rider, and she had ridden bareback practically since she could walk. Cinnamon, the chestnut mare that had once belonged to Gregor, had been his final gift to her when he absconded. Though she was the only horse the family had, there had been no thought of selling Cinnamon even through all the hard times. She had always-since Gregor left-been Kit's horse, and Kit rode her now.