handkerchief.

He had just completed this when he heard footsteps advancing down the hall. Raistlin hurriedly drew his sleeve

over his injured arm, flipped open the book to another page.

Lemuel peered in the door. "I hope I'm not disturbing you. I thought you might like some dinner...." Seeing the

dish of blood and the lamb's skin on the desk, the elder mage paused, looked quite startled.

"I'm copying a spell," " Raistlin explained. "I hope you don't mind. It's a sleep spell. I've been having a bit of trouble

with it, and I thought if I copied it, I could learn it better. And thankyou for the offer, but I'm not really hungry."

Lemuel smiled, marveled. "What a very dedicated student you are. You would have never found me cooped up with

my books on a sunny day during Harvest Home." He turned to leave, paused again. "Are you sure about dinner? The

housekeeper has fixed rabbit stew. She's part elf, you know. Comes from Qualinesti. The stew is quite good, flavored

with my own herbs-thyme, marjoram, sage ..."

"That does sound good. Perhaps later," said Raistlin, who was not the least bit hungry but didn't want to hurt the

mage's feelings.

Lemuel smiled again and hurried off, glad to return to his garden.

Raistlin went back to work. Flipping through the pages, he located the correct spell. He picked up the quill pen,

made of the feather of a swan, the point tipped with silver. Such a writing instrument was rather extravagant, not

necessary to the making of the scroll, but it showed that the archmage had been prosperous in his line of work.

Raistlin dipped the pen's point in the blood. Whispering a silent prayer to the three gods of magic-not wanting to

offend any one of them-he put the pen to the scroll.

The elegant quill wrote most smoothly, unlike other quills that would balk or sputter, causing the ruin of more

than one scroll. The first letter seemed to glide effortlessly upon the lamb's skin.

Raistlin resolved to someday own such a pen. He guessed that Lemuel would have given it freely if Raistlin had

asked, but Lemuel had already given his new friend a great deal. Pride forbade asking for more.

Raistlin copied out the spell, pronouncing each word as it was written. The work was painstaking and timeconsuming.

Sweat formed beneath his hair, trickled down his neck and breast. He had to stop writing after each

word to rub the cramp from his hand, cramps that came from clutching the pen too tightly, and to wipe the sweat

from his palm. He wrote the seventh word with fear in his heart and the thought as he completed the scroll that this

might have been all for nought. If he had mispronounced that word, the entire scroll and all his careful work were

worthless.

Reaching the end, he hesitated a moment before adding the final period. Closing his eyes, he again asked a

prayer of the three gods.

"I am doing your work. I am doing this for you. Grant me the magic!"

He looked back on his work. It was perfect. No wobble in the os. The curls on the s were graceful but not

overdone. He cast an anxious glance at the seventh word. There was no help for it. He had done his best. He put the

fine silver point of the quill to the lamb's wool and added the period that should start the magic.

Nothing happened. Raistlin had failed.

His eye caught a tiny flicker of light. He held his breath, wanting this as he had wanted his mother to live, willing

this to happen as he had willed her to continue breathing. His mother had died. But the flicker of the first letter of

the first word grew brighter.

It was not his imagination. The letter glowed, and the glow flowed to the second letter, and then to the second

word, and so on. The seventh word seemed to Raistlin to absolutely blaze with triumph. The final dot sparked and

then the glow died away. The letters were burned into the lamb's skin. The spell was ready for casting.

Raistlin bowed his head, whispered fervent, heartfelt thanks to the gods who had not failed him. Rising to his feet,

he was overcome by dizziness, and nearly passed out. He sank back into the chair. He had no idea what time it was,

was startled to see by the position of the sun that it was midafternoon. He was thirsty and hungry and had an urgent

need for a chamber pot.

Rolling up the scroll, he tucked it carefully in a scroll case, tied the case securely to his belt. He pushed himself to

his feet, made his way downstairs. After using the privies, he hungrily devoured two bowls of rabbit stew.

Raistlin could not recall having eaten so much in his entire life. Shoving aside his bowl, he leaned back in his

chair, intending to rest for only a brief moment.