Haven, a farmer's daughter. She had the misfortune to be extremely beautiful, and that's how she attracted my

father. Otherwise I would have been the son of some honest farmer, I'm sure. She wasn't very happy with my father.

She said she lived in fear that he'd burn the house down. You say you use black bryony to close wounds? What part?

The juice of the berry? Or do you grind the leaves?"

"About those books . . . " Raistlin hinted, when he had finally satisfied Lemuel as to the care, feeding, and uses of

the black bryony.

"Oh, yes. In the library. Up the stairs and down the hall, second door on your left. I'll just go pot this. Make

yourself at home. Do you suppose your brother would like something to eat while he keeps watch?"

Raistlin hastened up the stairs, pretending not to hear Lemuel call after him, wanting to know if the black bryony

would prefer to be in direct sunlight or partial shade. He went straight to the library, drawn to it by the whispered

song of magic, a teasing, tantalizing melody. The door was shut, but not locked. The hinges creaked as Raistlin

opened it.

The room smelled of mold and mildew; it had obviously not been aired out in years. Dried mouse dung crunched

under Raistlin's boot, dark shapes flitted into corners at his entrance. He wondered what mice found in this room to

eat and hoped fervently that it wasn't the pages of the spellbooks.

The library was small, contained a desk, bookshelves, and scroll racks. The scroll racks were empty, to Raistlin's

disappointment, but not his surprise. Magical spells inscribed on scrolls could be read aloud by those with the

knowledge of the

language of magic. They did not require nearly so much energy or the level of skill needed to produce a spell "by

hand," as the saying went. Even a novice such as Raistlin could use a magical scroll written by an archmagus,

provided the novice knew how to pronounce the words correctly.

Thus scrolls were quite valuable and charily guarded. They could be sold to other magi, if the owner did not have

a use for them. The archmagus would have taken his scrolls with him.

But he had left behind many of his books.

Scattered and upended, some of the spellbooks lay on the floor, as if they had been considered, then discarded.

Raistlin could see gaps on the shelves where the archmagus had presumably removed some valuable volume, leaving

the unwanted to lie moldering on the shelf.

These remaining books, their white bindings now turned a dirty and dismal gray, their pages yellowed, had been

considered valueless by their original owner. But in Raistlin's eyes, the books glittered with a radiance brighter than

that of a dragon's hoard. His excitement overwhelmed him. His heart beat so rapidly that he became light-headed,

faint.

The sudden weakness frightened him. Sitting down on a rickety chair, he drew in several deep breaths. The cure

almost proved his undoing. The air was dusty. He choked and coughed, and it was some time before he could catch

his breath.

A book lay on the floor almost at his feet. Raistlin picked it up, opened it.

The archmagus's handwriting was compact, with sharp, jutting angles. The distinctive leftward slant of the letters

indicated to Raistlin that the man was a loner, preferred his own company to that of others. Raistlin was somewhat

disappointed to find that this volume wasn't a spellbook at all. It was written in Common, with a smattering of what

Raistlin thought might be the mercenary tongue, a cant used by professional soldiers. He read the first page and his

disappointment faded.

The book gave detailed instructions on how to cast magical spells on ordinary weapons, such as swords and

battle-axes. Raistlin marked the book as one of immense value -to him, at least. He set the book to one side and took

up another. This was a spellbook, probably of very elementary spells, for it had no magical locks or prohibitions

placed upon it. Raistlin could puzzle out a few of the words, but most were foreign to him. The book served to remind

him of how much more he had yet to learn.

He regarded the book in bitterness and frustration. It had been cast aside by the great archmagus, the spells it

contained beneath his notice. Yet Raistlin could not even decipher them!

"You are being foolish," Raistlin reprimanded himself. "When this archmagus was my age, he didn't know nearly

as much as I do. Someday I will read this book. Someday I will cast it aside."

He laid the book down on top of the first and proceeded with his investigations.