one of his sons depart.

The feeling was mutual. Raistlin sometimes felt sorry he couldn't love his father more, and he was vaguely

aware that Gilon was sorry he couldn't love his strange, unchancy son.

No matter, Raistlin thought, rolling up his stockings into a ball. Tomorrow I will be gone. He found it difficult

to believe, but he was actually looking forward to the smell of cooked cabbage.

"What are you doing with your clothes, Raistlin?" Rosamun asked.

"I am packing, Mother. I return to Master Theobald's tomorrow to board there over the winter." He tried a

smile at her. "Had you forgotten?"

"No," Rosamun said in tones colder than the frost. "I was hoping that you would not be going back there."

Raistlin halted his packing to regard his mother with astonishment. He had expected such words from his

father.

"What? Not go back to my studies? Why would you think such a thing, Mother?"

"It is wicked, Raistlin!" Rosamun cried vehemently, with a passion frightening in its intensity. "Wicked, I tell

you!" She stomped her foot, drew herself up. "I forbid you to go back there. Ever!"

"Mother. .." Raistlin was shocked, alarmed, perplexed. He had no idea what to say. She had never before

protested his chosen field of study. He had wondered, at times, if she even knew he was studying magic, much

less cared. "Mother, some people think ill of mages, but I assure you that they are wrong."

"Gods of evil!" she intoned in a hollow voice. "You worship gods of evil, and at their behest, you perform

unnatural acts and unholy rites!"

"The most unnatural thing I've done so far, Mother, is to fall off my stool and nearly split my skull open," said

Raistlindryly. Her accusations were so ludicrous, he found it difficult to take this conversation seriously.

"Mother, I spend my days droning away after my master, learning to say 'ah' and 'oo' and 'uh.' I cover myself

with ink and occasionally manage to write something that is almost legible on a bit of parchment or scroll. I

tramp about in fields picking flowers. That is what I do, Mother. That is all I do," he said bitterly. "And I assure

you that Caramon's job mucking out stables and picking corn is far more interesting and far more exciting than

magic."

He stopped talking, astonished at himself, astonished at his own feelings. Now he understood. Now he knew

what had been chafing at him all summer. He understood the anger and frustration that bubbled like molten steel

inside him. Anger and frustration, tempered by fear and self-doubt.

Ink and flowers. Reciting meaningless words day after day. Where was the magic? When would it come to

him? Would it come to him?

He shook with a sudden chill.

Rosamun put her arm around his waist, rested her cheek against his. "You see? Your skin-it's hot to the touch.

I think you must have a fever. Don't go back to that dreadful school! You only make yourself sick. Stay here with

me. I will teach you all you need to know. We will read books together and work out sums like we used to do

when you were little. You will keep me company."

Raistlin found the idea surprisingly tempting. No more of the inanities of Master Theobald. No more silent,

lonely nights in the dormitory, nights made all the more lonely because he was not alone. No more of this inner

torment, this constant questioning.

What had happened to the magic? Where had it gone? Why did his blood burn more at the sight of some silly

giggling girl than it did when he copied down his oas andais?

He had lost the magic. Either that, or the magic had never been there. He had been fooling himself. It was time

to admit defeat. Admit that he had failed. Return home. Shut himself away in this cozy, snug room, warm, safe,

surrounded by his mother's love. He would take care of her. He would send the Widow Judith packing.

Raistlin bowed his head, unwilling she should see his bitter

unhappiness. Rosamun never noticed, however. She caressed his cheek and playfully turned his face to the looking

glass. The mirror had come with her from Palanthas. It was her prized possession, one of the few relics of her

girlhood.

"We will have such splendid times together, you and I. Look!" she said coaxingly, regarding the two faces in the

reflection with complacent pride. "Look how alike we are!"