Gordo was resigned, sullen, wanting to end this and return to his mates. He was probably already concocting the lies

he would tell about the master's laboratory.

Raistlin examined the small strip of lamb's skin, no longer than his forearm. The skin was soft, it had never been

used, was smooth to the touch.

The master placed a quill pen and an inkpot in front of each of the three boys. Standing back, he folded his hands

over his stomach and said, in solemn, sonorous tones, "You will write down on this lamb's skin the words I, Magus."

the rest of his life. It was improbable, but such a failure might become a renegade wizard, one who refused to follow

the laws of magic as handed down and adjudicated by the conclave. Renegade wizards were considered extremely

dangerousrightly so-and were hunted by the members of the conclave. The boys knew nothing about renegade

wizards, and Master Theobald wisely refrained from mentioning it. Gordo would have been a nervous wreck the

remainder of his existence.

"The test is simple for one who possesses the talent, extremely difficult for one who does not. Every person

wanting to advance in the study of magic takes the same elementary test. You are not casting a spell, not even a

cantrip. It will take many more years of study and hard work before you have the discipline and control necessary to

cast the most rudimentary of magical spells. This test merely determines whether or not you have what was called in

the old days 'the god's gift."'

He was referring to the old gods of magic, three cousins: Solinari, Lunitari, Nuitari. Their names were all that was

left of them, according to most people on Ansalon. Their names clung to their moons, to the silver moon, the red, and

the supposed black moon.

Wary of public opinion, aware that they were not universally liked or trusted, the wizards took care not to become

involved in religious arguments. They taught their pupils that the moons influenced magic much the way they

influenced the tides. It was a physical phenomenon, nothing spiritual or mystical about it.

Yet Raistlin wondered. Had the gods truly gone from the world, leaving only their lights burning in night's

window? Or were those lights glints from immortal, ever-watchful eyes? ...

Master Theobald turned to the wooden shelves behind him, opened a drawer. He drew out three strips of lamb's

skin, placed a strip in front of each boy. Jon Famish was taking this quite seriously now, after the master's speech.

Gordo was resigned, sullen, wanting to end this and return to his mates. He was probably already concocting the lies

he would tell about the master's laboratory.

Raistlin examined the small strip of lamb's skin, no longer than his forearm. The skin was soft, it had never been

used, was smooth to the touch.

The master placed a quill pen and an inkpot in front of each of the three boys. Standing back, he folded his hands

over his stomach and said, in solemn, sonorous tones, "You will write down on this lamb's skin the wordsI, Magus."

"Nothing else, Master?" asked Jon Farnish. "Nothing else."

Gordo squirmed and bit the end of his quill. "How do you spellMagus?"

Master Theobald fixed him with a reproving stare. "That is part of the test!"

"What ... what will happen if we do it right, Master?" Raistlin asked in a voice that he could not recognize as his

own.

"If you have the gift, something will happen. If not, nothing," replied Master Theobald. He did not look at Raistlin

as he spoke.

He wants me to fail, Raistlin understood, without quite knowing why. The master did not like him, but that

wasn't the reason. Raistlin guessed that it had something to do with jealousy of his sponsor, Antimodes. The

knowledge strengthened his resolve.

He picked up the quill, which was black, had come from the wing of a crow. Various types of quills were used to

write various scrolls: an eagle's feather was extremely powerful, as was that of the swan. A goose quill was for

everyday, ordinary writing, only to be used for magical penning in an emergency. A crow quill was useful for almost

any type of magic, though some of the more fanatic White Robes objected to its color.

Raistlin touched the feather with his finger. He was extraordinarily conscious of the feather's feel, its crispness

contrasting oddly with its softness. Rainbows, cast by the globe light, shimmered on the feather's glistening black

surface. The point was newly cut, sharp. No cracked and sputtering pen for this important event.

The smell of the ink reminded him of Antimodes and the time he had praised Raistlin's work. Raistlin had long ago