"Father won't care," Raistlin said. "He'll be relieved, I think. He's afraid that I'll end up like Mother." The

child's pale cheeks were suddenly stained red. "Unless it costs a lot of money. Then I couldn't do it."

"As to the money"-Antimodes had already made up his mind on that point "we wizards take care of our

own."

The child didn't quite understand this. "It couldn't be charity," Raistlin said. "Father wouldn't like that at all."

"It's not charity," Antimodes said briskly. "We have funds set aside for deserving students. We help pay their

tuition and other expenses. Can I meet with your father tonight? I could explain this to him then."

"Yes, he should be home tonight. The job's almost finished. I'll bring him here. It's hard for people to find our

house sometimes after dark," Raistlin said apologetically.

Of course it is, Antimodes said silently, his heart wrenched with pity. A sad, unhappy, slovenly kept house, a

lonely house. It hides among the shadows and guards its dark secret.

The child was so thin, so weak. A good strong gust of wind would flatten his frail

frame. Magic might well be the shield that would protect this fragile person, become the

staff upon which he could lean when he was weak or weary. Or the magic might become

a monster, sucking the life from the thin body, leaving a dry, desiccated husk. Antimodes

might well be starting this boy on the path that would lead to an early death.

"Why do you stare at me?" the child asked curiously.

Antimodes gestured for Raistlin to leave his chair and come stand directly in front of

him. Reaching out, Antimodes took hold of the boy's hands. The youngster flinched and

started to squirm away.

He doesn't like to be touched, Antimodes realized, but he maintained his hold on the

boy. He wanted to emphasize his words with his flesh, his muscle, his bone. He wanted

the boy to feel the words as well as hear them.

"Listen to me, Raistlin," Antimodes said, and the boy quieted and held still. He realized

that this conversation was not that of an adult talking down to a child. It was one equal

speaking to another. "The magic will not solve your problems. It will only add to them.

The magic will not make people like you. It will increase their distrust. The magic will

not ease your pain. It will twist and bum inside you until sometimes you think that even

death would be preferable."

Antimodes paused, holding fast to the child's hands that were hot and dry, as if he were

running a fever. The archmage was ranging about mentally for a means of explanation

this young boy might understand. The distant ringing tap of the blacksmith's shop, rising

up from the street below, provided the metaphor.

"A mage's soul is forged in the crucible of the magic," Antimodes said. "You choose to

go voluntarily into the fire. The blaze might well destroy you. But if you survive, every

blow of the hammer will serve to shape your being. Every drop of water wrung from you

will temper and strengthen your soul. Do you understand?"

"I understand," said the boy.

"Do you have any question for me, Raistlin?" Antimodes asked, tightening his grip.

"Any question at all?"

The boy hesitated, considering. He was not reluctant to speak. He was wondering how

to phrase his need.

"My father says that before mages can work their magic, they are taken to a dark and

horrible place where they must

fight terrible monsters. My father says that sometimes the mages die in that place. Is that

true?"

"The Tower is really quite a lovely place, once you become accustomed to it," said

Antimodes. He paused, choosing his words carefully. He would not lie to the child, but

some things were beyond the understanding of even this precocious six-year-old. "When

a mage is older, much older than you are now, Raistlin, he or she goes to the Tower of