Sturm had been searching for Raistlin as well. Sighting him, Sturm gave a brief nod, jerked his thumb. A small

hand shot out from behind Sturm's back, waved. Kender and knight were in position.

Raistlin turned to face the arena. He had no difficulty at all finding his sister. Kitiara stood in the pen in front of

the arena, alongside the others who had been invited to speak to their dead kin.

As if aware of his gaze upon her, Kit grinned her crooked grin. Raistlin realized with some bitterness that she was

calm, relaxed, even having fun.

He was not.

When the last stragglers had been hurried to their seats, the doors shut. The Temple grew dark. Fire sprang up

from the braziers on the arena floor. The chanting began. The priests and priestess entered, bearing the charmed

vipers in the baskets. Soon Judith would make her entrance. Raistlin's moment to act was fast approaching.

He was terrified. He knew very well what ailed him, recognized the symptoms-stage fright.

Raistlin had experienced stage fright before, but only very mildly, prior to his performances at the small fairs in

Solace. The fear had always vanished the moment he began his act, and he had not worried about it.

He had never before performed to an audience of this size, an audience that must be considered hostile. He had

never performed for stakes this large. His fear was a hundredfold greater than anything he'd previously experienced.

His hands were chilled to the bone, the fingers so stiff he did not think he could move them enough to draw the

scroll from the case. His bowels gripped, and he thought for one horrible moment that he was going to be forced to

leave to go find the privies. His mouth dried up. He could not speak a word. How was he to cast the spell if he

couldn't talk? His body was drenched in sweat, he shivered with chills. His stomach heaved.

His performance was going to end in ignominy and shame, with him being sick all over himself.

The High Priest began his introduction. Raistlin didn't pay heed. He sat hunched over, miserable and deathly ill.

High Priestess Judith appeared in her blue robes. She was making her welcoming speech to the audience.

Raistlin couldn't hear the words for the roaring in his ears. The time was fast approaching. Caramon was looking at

him expectantly. Somewhere in the darkness, Kit was watching him. Sturm was waiting for his signal, so was

Tasslehoff. They were waiting for him, counting on him, depending on him. They would understand his failure. They

would be kind, never reproach him. They would pity him....

Judith had lowered her arms. The sleeves cascaded down around her hands. She was preparing to cast the spell.

Raistlin fumbled at the scroll case, forcing his numb fingers to

unfasten the lid. He drew forth the scroll, his hand shaking so he nearly dropped it. Panicked, afraid he would

lose it in the darkness and not be able to recover it, he clenched his fist over it.

Slowly, trembling, Raistlin cast off his black cloak, rose to his feet. His neighbors glared at him in irritation.

Someone behind him hissed loudly for him to sit down. When he didn't, more voices were raised. The

commotion caused others to look in his direction, including one of the priests in the arena.

Raistlin searched his mind frantically for his carefully worded, oft -rehearsed speech. He couldn't recall any of

it. Dazed by debilitating fear, he unrolled the scroll and looked at it, hoping it might give him some clue.

The letters of the magical words glowed faintly, pleasantly, as if they had been illuminated, the brush tipped

with fire. The warmth of the magic spread from the scroll through his chilled fingers and brought with it

reassurance. He possessed the ability to cast the spell, the skill to wield the magic. He would work his will on

these people, hold them under his sway.

The knowledge enflamed him. An updraft of power consumed his fear.

His voice, when he spoke, was unfamiliar. Generally softspoken, he had not expected to sound so strong. He

pitched his voice to where the acoustics would best amplify his words, and the result was dramatic. He startled

even himself.

"Citizens of Haven," he called, "friends and neighbors. I stand before you to warn you that you are being

duped!"

Mutterings and murmurs rumbled through the crowd. Some were angry, shouted for him to stop insulting the

god. Others were annoyed, worried that he was going to disrupt the promised miracle. A few clapped, urged him

on. They'd come to see a show, and this guaranteed that they'd get more than their money's worth. People craned

their necks to see him, many stood up in their seats.

The priests and priestesses in the arena looked uncertainly at their leader, wondering what to do. At a signal