the farmer's cart.

In school, the pupils were dull and stupid from the heat, spent the days swatting at flies, dozing off, waking to

the sting of Master Theobald's willow branch. Finally even Master Theobald conceded that they were

accomplishing nothing. Besides, there was the Wizards' Conclave he wanted to attend. He gave his students a

holiday for eight weeks. School would recommence in autumn, after the harvest.

Raistlin was thankful for the holiday; at least it was a break in the dull routine. Yet he hadn't been home for

more than a day before he wished he was back in school. Reminded of the teasing, the cabbage, and Master

Theobald, he wondered why he wasn't happy at home. And then he realized he wouldn't be happy anywhere. He

felt restless, dissatisfied.

"You need a girl," Caramon advised.

"I hardly think so," Raistlin answered acerbically. He glanced over to a group of three sisters, pretending to be

wholly absorbed in hanging the laundry over the vallenwood limbs to dry. But their attention was not on shirts

and petticoats. Their eyes darted daring, smiling glances at Caramon. "Do you realize how silly you look, my

brother? You and the others? Puffing up your chests and flexing your muscles, throwing axes at trees or flailing

away at each other with your fists. All for what? To gain the attention of some giggling girl!"

"I get more than giggles, Raist," Caramon said, with a lewd

wink. "Come on over. I'll introduce you. Lucy said she thought you were cute."

"I have ears, Caramon," Raistlin returned coldly. "What she said was that your baby brother was cute."

Caramon flushed, uncomfortable. "She didn't mean it, Raist. She didn't know. I explained to her that we were

the same age, and-"

Raistlin turned and walked away. The girl's heedless words had hurt him deeply, and his pain angered him, for

he wanted to be above caring what anyone thought of him. It was this traitorous body of his, first sickly and frail,

now teasing him with vague longings and half-understood desires. He considered it all disgusting anyway.

Caramon was behaving like a stag during rutting season.

Girls, or the lack of them, were not his problem, at least not all of it. He wondered uneasily what was.

The heat broke suddenly that night in a violent thunderstorm. Raistlin lay awake to watch the bolts of light

streak the roiling clouds with eerie pinks and oranges. He reveled in the booms of thunder that shook the

vallenwoods and vibrated through the floorboards. A blinding flash, a deafening explosion, the smell of sulfur,

and the sound of shattering wood told of a lightning strike nearby. Shouts of "Fire!" were partially lost in the

crashing thunder. Caramon and Gilon braved the torrential rain to go out to help battle the blaze. Fire was their

worst enemy. Though the vallenwood trees were more resistant to fire than most others, a blaze out of control

could destroy their entire tree town. Raistlin stayed with his mother, who wept and trembled and wondered why

her husband hadn't remained home to comfort her. Raistlin watched the progress of the flames, his spellbooks

clasped fast in his hand in case he and his mother had to run for it.

The storm ended at dawn. Only one tree had been hit, three houses burned. No one had been injured; the

families had escaped in time. The ground was littered with leaves and blasted limbs, the air was tainted with the

sickening smell of smoke and wet wood. All around Solace, small streams and creeks were out of their banks.

Fields that had been parched were now flooded.

Raistlin left his home to view the damage, along with almost every other person in Solace. He then walked to

the edge of the tree line to see the rising water. He stared at the churning waters of the creek. Normally placid, it

was now foam-flecked,

swirling angrily, gnawing away at the banks that had long held it confined.

Raistlin felt complete sympathy.

Autumn came, bringing cool, crisp days and fat, swollen moons; brilliant colors, reds and golds. The rustle

and swirl of the falling leaves did no t cheer Raistlin's mood. The change of the season, the bittersweet

melancholy that belongs to autumn, which brings both the harvest and the withering frost, served only to

exacerbate his ill humor.

This day, he would return to school, resume boarding with Master Theobald. Raistlin looked forward to going

back to school as he had looked forward to leaving-it was a change, at least. And at least his brain would have

something to do besides torment him with images of golden curls, sweet smiles, swelling breasts, and fluttering