"As to the gnomes, they are like the dwarves of Thorbardin, with one exception-we assume the gnomes still

reside inMountNevermindbecause no one has seen it explode yet. The kender appear to be more prolific than

ever; they go everywhere, see everything, steal most of it, misplace the rest, and are of no use whatsoever."

"Oh, I think they are of use," said Par-Salian earnestly. He was known to be fond of kender, mainly so

(Antimodes always said sourly) because he remained isolated in his tower and never had dealings with them.

"Kender are the true innocents of this world. They remind us that we spend a great deal of time and energy

worrying about things that are really not very important."

Antimodes grunted. "And so when may we expect to see you abandon your books, grab a hoopak, and take off

down the road?"

Par-Salian smiled back. "Don't think I haven't considered it, my friend. I believe I would be a deft hand at

hoopak flinging, if it came to that. I was quite skilled with a slingshot when I was a child. Ah, well, the evening

grows long." This was his signal to end the meeting. "Will I see you in the morning?" he asked with a faint

anxiety, which Antimodes understood.

"I would not dream of interfering in your work, my friend," he answered. "I will have a look through the

artifacts and scrolls and the spell components, especially if you have some elven merchandise. There's one or two

things I want to pick up. Then I'll be onmy way."

"You are the one who would make a good kender," said Par-Salian, rising in his turn. "You never stay in one

place long enough for the dust to settle on your shoes. Where do you go from here?"

"Oh, round and about," Antimodes said lightly. "I'm in no

hurry to return home. My brother is capable of running the business quite well without me, and I've made

arrangements for my earnings to be invested, so that I make money even when I'm not there. Much easier and far

more profitable than chanting spells over a lump of iron ore. Good night, my friend."

"Good night and safe journeying," Par-Salian said, taking his friend by the hand and giving it a hearty shake. He

paused a moment, tightened his grasp.

"Be careful, Antimodes. I don't like the signs. I don't like the portents. The sun shines on us now, but I see the tips

of dark wings casting long shadows. Continue sending me your reports. I value them highly."

"I will be careful," said Antimodes, a little troubled by his friend's earnest appeal.

Antimodes was well aware that Par-Salian had not told all he knew. The head of the conclave was not only adept

at seeing into the future, he was also known to be a favorite of Solinari, the god of white magic. Dark wings. What

could he possibly mean by that? The Queen of Darkness, dear old Takhisis? Gone but not forgotten. Not dare

forgotten by those who studied the past, by those who knew of what evil she was capable.

Dark wings. Vultures? Eagles? Symbols of war? Griffins, pegasi? Magical beasts, not seen much these days.

Dragons?

Paladine help us!

All the more reason, Antimodes determined, why I should find out what's happening in Solamnia. He was heading

out the door when Par-Salian again stopped him.

"That young pupil ... the one of whom you spoke. What was his name?"

It took Antimodes a moment to shift his thoughts to this different tack, another moment to try to remember.

"Raistlin. Raistlin Majere."

Par-Salian made a note of it in his book.

It was early morning in Solace, very early. The sun had

not yet dawned when the twins awoke in their small

A4 home that lurked in the shadows of a vallenwood. With its ill-fitting shutters, shabby curtains, and straggling,

half-dead plants, the house looke d nearly as forlorn and neglected as the children who inhabited it.

Their father-Gilon Majere, a big man with a broad and cheerful face, a face whose natural placidity was marred by

a worry line between his brows-had not come home that night. He had traveled far from Solace on a job for a lord

with an estate onCrystalmirLake. Their mother was awake, but she had been awake sincemidnight.

Rosamun sat in her rocking chair, a skein of wool in her thin hands. She would wind the wool into a tight ball,

tear it apart, and then rewind it. All the while she worked, she sang to herself in an eerie low-pitched voice or

sometimes paused to hold conversations with people who were not visible to anyone except her.