Raistlin was not superstitious. But her words, spoken in all innocence, were so very ill-omened that he couldn't

help but shudder.

"You're shivering," Rosamun said, concerned. "There! I said you had a fever! Come and lie down!"

"No, Mother. I am fine. Mother, please..."

He tried to edge away. Her touch, which had seemed so comforting, was now something loathsome. Raistlin was

ashamed and appalled that he felt this way about his mother, but he couldn't help himself.

She only clasped him more tightly, rested her cheek against his arm. He was taller than she was by at least a

head.

"You are so thin," she said. "Far too thin. Food doesn't stick to your bones. You fret it away. And that school. I'm

sure it's making you ill. Sickness is a punishment for those who do not walk the paths of righteousness, so the

Widow Judith says."

Raistlin didn't hear his mother, he wasn't listening to her. He was suffocating, felt as if someone were pressing a

pillow over his nose and mouth. He longed to break free of his mother's grasp and lush outside, where he could gulp

down huge drafts of fresh air. He longed to run and to keep on running, run into the sweet-scented night, journey

along a road that would take him anywhere but here.

At that moment, Raistlin knew a kinship with his half-sister, Kitiara. He understood then why she had left, knew

how she must have felt. He envied her the freedom of her life, cursed the frail body that kept him chained to home's

hearth, kept him fettered in his schoolroom.

He had always assumed the magic would free him, as Kitiara's sword had freed her.

But what if the magic did not free him? What if the magic would not come to him? What if he had indeed lost the

gift?

He looked into the mirror, looked into his mother's dream-ravaged face, and closed his eyes against the fear.

Snow was falling. The boys were dismissed early, told to go play outdoors until dinner. Exercising in the cold

was healthful, expanded the lungs. The boys knew the real

reason they were being sent outside. Master Theobald wanted

to get rid of them.

He had been strangely preoccupied all that day, his mindwhat there was of it-somewhere else. He taught class

absentmindedly, not seeming to care whether they learned anything or not. He had not had recourse to the willow

branch once, although one of the boys had drifted off to sleep shortly after lunch and slept soundly and noisily

through the remainder of the afternoon.

Most of the boys considered such inattention on their master's part a welcome change. Three found it extremely

uncomfortable, however, due to the fact that he would occasionally lapse into long, vacant silences, his gaze roving

among these three eldest in his class.

Raistlin was among the three.

Outside, the other boys took advantage of the heavy snowfall to build a fort, form armies, and pelt each other with

snowballs. Raistlin wrapped himself in a warm, thick cloak-a parting gift, oddly enough, from the Widow Judith-and

left the others to their stupid games. He went for a walk among a stand of pines on the north side of the school.

No wind blew. The snow brought a hush to the land, muffling all sound, even the shrill shouting of the boys. He

was wrapped in silence. The trees stood unmoving. Animals were tucked away in nest or lair or den, sleeping their

winter sleep. All color was obliterated, leaving in its absence the white of the falling snow, the black of the wet tree

trunks, the slate gray of the lowering sky.

Raistlin stood on the edge of the forest. He had intended to walk among the trees, to follow a snow-choked path

that led to a little clearing. In the clearing was a fallen log, which served well as a seat. This was Raistlin's refuge, his

sanctuary. No one knew about it. Pines shielded the clearing from the school and the play yard. Here Raistlin came to

brood, to think, to sort through his collection of herbs and plants, to mull over his notes, reciting to himself the

letters of the alphabet of the language of the arcane.

He had been certain, when he'd first marked the clearing as his own, that the other boys would find it and try to

spoil itdrag off the log, perhaps; dump their kitchen scraps here; empty their chamber pots in it. The boys had left

the clearing alone. They knew he went off somewhere by himself, but they made no attempt to follow him. Raistlin

had been pleased at first.They respected him at last.