No loving mother doted over these boys. No loving hands combed that tangled hair, no loving tongue scolded

them to wash behind their ears. They did not have the whipped and hangdog air of beaten children, but they were

certainly neglected.

"What is your name?" Antimo des asked.

"Raistlin," replied the boy.

He had one mark in his favor. He looked directly at Antimodes while speaking. The one thing Antimodes detested

most about small children was their habit of staring down at their feet or the floor or looking anywhere except at him,

as though they expected him to pounce on them and eat them. This boy kept his pale blue eyes level with those of

the adult, held them fixed and unwavering on the archmage.

These blue eyes gave nothing, expected nothing. They held too much knowledge. They had seen too much in their

six years-too much sorrow, too much pain. They had looked beneath the bed and discovered that there really were

monsters lurking in the shadows.

So, young man, I bet you'd like to be a mage when you grow up!

That was Antimodes's standard, banal line in these circumstances. He had just sense enough not to say it. Not to

say it to those knowing eyes.

The archmage felt a tingling at the back of his neck. He recognized it-the touch of the fingers of the god.

Tamping down his excitement, Antimodes spoke to the older sister. "I'd like to talk to your brother alone. Perhaps

you and his twin could-"

"Sure," said Kitiara immediately. "C'mon, Caramon."

"Not without Raistlin," Caramon said promptly.

"Come on, Caramon!" Kitiara repeate d impatiently. Grasping him by the arm, she gave him a yank.

Even then, the boy held back from his sister's strong and impatient tug. Caramon was a solid child. It seemed

unlikely that his sister would be able to budge him without resorting to a block and tackle. He looked at Antimodes.

"We're twins, sir. We do everything together."

Antimodes glanced at the weaker twin to see how he was taking this. Raistlin's cheeks were faintly flushed; he was

embarrassed, but he seemed also smugly pleased. Antimodes felt a slight chill. The boy's pleasure in his brother's

show of loyalty and affection was not that of one sibling's pleasure in the love of another. It was more like the

pleasure a man takes in exhibiting the talents of a well-loved dog.

"Go on, Caramon," Raistlin said. "Perhaps he'll teach me some new tricks. I'll show them to you after supper

tonight."

Caramon looked uncertain. Raistlin cast his brother a glance from beneath the thatch of lank, uncombed hair.

That glance

was an order. Caramon lowered his eyes, then, suddenly cheerful again, he grabbed hold of his sister's hand.

"I hear Sturm's found a badger hole. He's going to try to whistle the badger out. Do you think he can do it, Kit?"

"What do I care?" she asked crossly. Walking off, she smacked Caramon a blow on the back of his head. "Next

time do as I tell you. Do you hear me? What kind of soldier are you going to make if you don't know how to obey my

orders?"

"I'll obey orders, Kit," said Caramon, wincing and rubbing his scalp. "But you told me to leave Raistlin. You know

I've got to watch out for him."

Antimodes heard their voices arguing all the way down the stairs.

He looked back at the boy. "Please sit down," " he said.

Silently Raistlin slid into the chair opposite the mage. He was small for his age, his feet did not reach the floor. He

sat perfectly still. He didn't fidget or jitter. He didn't swing his legs or kick at the legs of the chair. He clasped his

hands together on the table and stared at Antimodes.

"Would you like something to eat or drink? As my guest, of course," Antimodes added.

Raistlin shook his head. Though the child was filthy and dressed like a beggar, he wasn't starving. Certainly his

twin appeared well fed. Someone saw to it that they had food on the table. As for the boy's excessive thinness,

Antimodes guessed that it was the result of a fire burning deep down in the inner recesses of the child's being, a fire

that consumed food before it could nourish the body, a fire that left the child with a perpetual hunger he did not yet

understand.