Margaret Weis - THE SOULFORGE

"There could be lots of reasons," said Caramon stoutly. "Maybe he's being held prisoner in a dungeon by a mad wizard. Oh, sorry, Raist. I didn't mean that the way it sounded."

Raistlin snorted. He was occupied in feeding his rabbits, paying scant attention to the conversation.

"Whatever the case," Sturm said, "I intend to find out the truth. When the roads are open, within the month, I plan to travel north to Solamnia."

"No! Name of the Abyss," exclaimed Caramon, startled.

Raistlin, too, was amazed. He turned from his work, cabbage leaves in his hand, to see if the young man was serious.

Sturm nodded his head. "1 have wanted to make such a journey for the past three years, but I was loath to leave my mother for an extended period of time. Now there is nothing to hold me. I go, and I go with her blessing. If, in fact, my father is dead, then I have my inheritance to claim. If he lives

Sturm shook his head, unable to complete the expression of the dream, too wonderful to possibly come true.

"Are you going alone?" Caramon asked, awed.

Sturm smiled, a rare thing for the usually solemn and serious young man. "I had hoped that you would come with me, Caramon. I would ask you, too, Raistlin," he added more stiffly, "but the journey will be long and difficult, and I fear it might tax your, health. And I know that you would not want to be so far from your studies."

Ever since their return from Haven, Raistlin had spent every moment he could spare studying the tomes of the war magus. He had added several new spells to his spellbook.

"On the contrary, I am feeling unusually strong this spring," Raistlin remarked. "I would be able to take my books with me. I thank you for the offer, Sturm, and I will consider it, as will my brother."

"I'm going," Caramon said. "So long as Raist comes, too. And as he says, he has been really strong. He hasn't been sick hardly at all."

"I am glad to hear it," Sturm said, though without much enthusiasm. He knew very well that the twins would not be separated, although he had hoped against all reason to be able to persuade Caramon to leave Raistlin behind. "I remind you, Raistlin, that magic-users are not venerated in my country. Although, of course, you would be accorded the hospitality due any guest."

Raistlin bowed. "For which I am deeply grateful. I will be a most accommodating guest, I assure you, Sturm. I will not set the bed linens on fire, nor will I poison the well. In fact, you might find certain of my skills useful on the road."

"He's a really good cook," stated Caramon.

Sturm rose to his feet. "Very well. I will make the arrangements. My mother left me some money, although not much. Not enough for horses, I fear. We will have to travel on foot."

The moment the door closed behind Sturm, Caramon began capering around the small house, upsetting the furniture and wreaking havoc in his delight. He even had the temerity to give his brother a hug.

"Have you gone mad?" Raistlin demanded. "There! Look what you've done. That was our only cream pitcher. No, don't try to help! You've caused enough damage. Why don't you go polish your sword or sharpen it or whatever you do to it?"

"I will! A great idea!" Caramon rushed off to his bedroom, only to run back a moment later. "I don't have a whetstone."

"Go borrow one from Flint. Or better still, take your sword to Flint's and work on it there," Raistlin said, mopping up spilled cream. "Anything to get you out from underfoot."

"I wonder if Flint would like to come along. And Kit and Tanis and Tasslehoff! I'll go see."

His brother gone and the house quiet, Raistlin picked up the pieces of the broken pitcher and threw them away. He was as excited over the prospect of a journey to new and distant lands as his brother, though he had more sense than to smash the crockery over it. He was considering which of his herbs to pack, which he might find along the roadside, when there came a knock at the door.

Thinking it might be Sturm, Raistlin called out, "Caramon has gone to Flint's."

The knock was repeated, this time with the sharp rapping of an impatient visitor.

Raistlin opened the door, regarded his guest in amazement and surprise and not a little concern.

"Master Theobald!"

The mage stood upon the boardwalk outside the house. He wore a cloak over his white robes and carried a stout staff, indications that he had been traveling.

"May I come in?" Theobald asked gruffly.

"Certainly. Of course. Forgive me, Master." Raistlin stood aside, ushered his guest across the threshold. "I was not expecting you."

That was quite true. In all the years that Raistlin had attended the master's school, Theobald had never once paid a visit to Raistlin's home, nor evinced the slightest inclination to do so.

Bemused and somewhat apprehensive-his exploits in Haven had been widely reported throughout Solace-Raistlin invited his master to be seated in the only good chair in the house, the chair that happened to be his mother's rocking chair. Theobald declined all offers of food and wine.

"I do not have time to linger. I have been gone for a week, and I have not yet been home. I came here immediately. I have just returned from the Tower at Wayreth, from a meeting of the conclave."

Raistlin's uneasiness increased. "Isn't a meeting of the conclave at this early time of year somewhat unusual, Master? I thought they were always held in the summer."

"It is indeed unusual. We wizards had matters of great import to discuss. I was specially sent for," Theobald added, stroking his beard.

Raistlin made suitable comments, all the while wishing impatiently and with increasing nervousness that the provoking old fart would come to the point.

"Your doings in Haven were among the topics of discussion, Majere," Theobald said, glowering at Raistlin, brows bristling. "You broke many rules, not the least of which was casting a spell far above your capability."

Raistlin would have pointed out that the spell was obviously not above his capability to cast, since he had cast it, but he knew that this would be lost on Theobald.

"I did what I thought was right under the circumstances, Master," Raistlin said, as meekly and contritely as he could.

"Rubbish!" Theobald snorted. "You know what was right under the circumstances. You should have reported the wizardess to us as a renegade. We would have dealt with the matter in time."

"In time, Master," Raistlin emphasized. "Meanwhile, innocent people were being bilked out of what little they had, others were being driven from their homes. The charlatan priestess and her followers were causing irreparable harm. I sought to end it."

"You ended it, all right," Theobald said with dark implications.

"I was exonerated from her murder, Master," Raistlin returned, his tone sharp. "I have a writ from the High Sheriff of Haven himself proclaiming my innocence."

"So who did kill her?" Theobald asked.

"I have no idea, Master," Raistlin replied.

"Hunh," Theobald grunted. "Well, you handled the matter badly, but, still, you handled it. Damn near got yourself killed in the process, I understand. As I said, the conclave discussed the matter."

Raistlin kept silent, waited to hear his punishment. He had already determined that if they forbade him to practice magic, he would defy them, become a renegade himself.

Theobald withdrew a scroll case. He opened the lid, taking an unconscionable length of time about it, fussing and fumbling clumsily until Raistlin was tempted to leap across the room and wrest the case from the man's hand. Finally the lid came off. Theobald removed a scroll, handed it across to Raistlin.

"Here, pupil. You might as well see this for yourself."

Now that the scroll was in his hands, Raistlin wondered if he had the courage to read it. He hesitated a moment to insure that his hands did not tremble and betray him, then, with outward nonchalance masking inward apprehension, he unrolled the scroll.