"What do you mean,sir, sleeping in my class?" Master Theobald thundered at the young malefactor, who

shrank before his rage and surreptitiously wiped away his tears.

During this commotion, Raistlin heard a flurry of activity behind him, a sort of scuffling, but he didn't bother

to look around. The antics of the other boys seemed petty and stupid to him. Why did they waste their time, such

precious time, in nonsense?

He said "ai" quietly to himself until he was sure he had it right, and even wrote down the vowel combination

upon his slate in order to practice it later. Absorbed in his work, he ignored the muffled giggles and sniggers

going on around him. Master Theobald, having completely demoralized one small urchin, returned to his desk

well satisfied. Seating himself ponderously, he continued with the lesson.

"The next vowel in the language of the arcane is o. This is not pronounced 'oo,' nor yet 'och,' but 'oa.'

Pronunciation is most important, young gentlemen, and therefore I suggest you pay attention. Pronounce a spell

incorrectly and it will not work. I am reminded of the time when I was a pupil of the great wizard-"

Raistlin fidgeted in irritation. Master Theobald was off on one of his tales, stories that were dull and boring

and served invariably to laud the mediocre talents of Master Theobald. Raistlin was copying down carefully the

letter o with the phonetic pronunciation "oa" next to it when suddenly his stool shot out from underneath him.

Raistlin tumbled to the floor. The fall, completely unexpected, was a hard one. Stinging pain shot through his

wrist,

which he'd instinctively used to try to catch himself. The stool toppled to the floor with a loud clatter. His neighbors

broke into guffaws, immediately silenced.

Master Theobald, his face purple against his white robes, sprang to his feet and stood quive ring in rage like a

mound of vanilla pudding.

"Master Raistlin! What is the meaning of this disruption to my lecture?"

"He went to sleep, sir, and fell off his stool," Gordo offered helpfully.

Crouched on the floor, nursing his injured wrist, Raistlin located the string that had been tied to the leg of his

stool. As he reached to grab it, the string slithered across the floor to disappear up the sleeve of Devon, one of the

Gordo's minions, who sat behind him.

"Sleeping! Interrupting me!" Master Theobald snatched up the willow branch and bore down upon Raistlin. Seeing

the blow coming, he hunched his shoulders, and raised his arm to make himself as small a target as possible.

One cut of the willow sliced the flesh of Raistlin's upraised arm, narrowly missing his face. The master lifted his

hand to strike again.

Rage, hot as a forge fire, burned through Raistlin. His anger consumed his fear, consumed his pain. His first wild

impulse was to leap to his feet and attack his teacher. A trickle of common sense, icy cold, ran through Raistlin's

body. He felt the idea as a physical sensation, a chill that tingled his nerve endings and set him shivering, even in the

white heat of his fury. He saw himself attacking the master, saw himself looking the fool-a puny weakling with

spindly arms shrieking in a high-pitched voice, flailing away impotently with his tiny fists. Worse, he would be the

one in the wrong. Master Theobald would triumph over him. The other boys-Raistlin's tormentors-would laugh and

gloat.

Raistlin gave a strangled gasp and went limp, lying on his back, his legs twisted at an angle, knees together. One

hand slid nervelessly to the floor, the other lay flaccid across his thin chest. His eyelids closed. He made his

breathing as quiet as he could manage, quiet and shallow.

Raistlin had been sick many times during his short life. He knew how to be sick, he knew how to feign illness. He

lay, pale and shattered and apparently lifeless, on the floor at the master's feet.

"Cripes!" said Devon, the boy who had tied the string to the stool. "You've killed him!"

"Nonsense," said Master Theobald, though his voice cracked on the word. He lowered the willow stick. "He's

just ... just fainted. That's all. Fainted. Gordo"-he coughed, was forced to clear his throat "Gordo, go fetch some

water."

The boy ran off to do as he was told. His feet pounded on the stone floor; Raistlin could hear him fumbling at

the water bucket. Raistlin continued to lie where he had fallen, his eyes closed, not stirring or making a sound.

He was enjoying this, he discovered-enjoying the attention, enjoying their fear, their discomfiture.

Gordo ran back with the water dipper, slopping most of the water over the floor and the skirts of the master's