THE SOULFORGE.

Weis & Hickman.

Dragonlance - Raistlin Chronicles.

Book I.

A mage's soul is forged in the crucible of the magic.

-Antimodes of the White Robes.

He never wore his white robes while traveling.

Few mages did, in those days, the days before the great and terrible

War of the Lance spilled out of its caldron like boiling oil and scalded the

countryside. In those days, just fifteen or so years before the war, the fire

beneath the pot had been lit, the Dark Queen and her minions had

struck the sparks that would start the blaze. The oil was cool, black, and

sluggish in the caldron. But at the bottom, the oil was beginning to

simmer.

Most people on Ansalon would never see the caldron, much less the

bubbling oil inside, until it was poured on their heads, along with

dragonfire and the countless other horrors of war. At this time of relative

peace, the majority of people living on Ansalon never looked up, never

looked from side to side to see what was going on in the world around

them. Instead, they gazed at their own feet, plodding through the dusty

day, and if they ever lifted their heads, it was usually to see if it was

likely to rain and spoil their picnic.

A few felt the heat of the newly kindled fire. A few had been watching

closely the turgid black liquid in the caldron. Now they could see that it

was starting to simmer. These few were uneasy. These few began to make

plans.

The wizard's name was Antimodes. He was human, of good middleclass

merchant stock, hailing from Port Balifor. The youngest of three, he

had been raised in the family business, which was tailoring. To this day,

he still displayed with pride the scars of the pinpricks on the middle

finger of his right hand. His early experience left him with a canny

business sense and a taste for, and knowledge of, fine clothing, one

reason he rarely wore his white robes.

Some mages were afraid to wear their robes, which were a symbol of

their calling, because that calling was not well loved in Ansalon.

Antimodes was not afraid. He did not wear his white robes because white

showed the dirt. He detested arriving at his destination mud-splattered,

the stains of the road upon him.

He traveled alone, which in those uneasy days meant that he was

either a fool, a kender, or an extremely powerful person. Antimodes was

not a fool, nor was he a kender. He traveled alone because he preferred

his own company and that of his donkey, Jenny, to that of almost all

others of his acquaintance. Hired bodyguards were generally loutish and

dull, not to mention expensive. Antimodes could adequately and handily

defend himself, should need arise.

The need had rarely arisen, in all his fifty-plus years. Thieves look for

prey that is timid, cowering, drunk, or heedless. Though his finely made

dark blue woolen cloak with its silver clasps showed him to be a man of

wealth, Antimodes wore that cloak with an air of confidence, riding with

his back straight on his daintily stepping donkey, his head held high, his

sharp-eyed gaze taking notice of every squirrel in the trees, every toad in