double shadows that streaked the white with black, black tinged with blood-red.

Raistlin looked up at the moons and he laughed, ringing laughter that echoed among the trees, laughter that

could be heard all the way to heaven. He dashed headlong into the woods, trampling the white unbroken

snowbanks, leaving his tracks, his mark.

Book 3.

The magic is in the blood, it flows from the heart. Every time you use it, part of yourself goes with it. Only when you are prepared to

give of yourself and receive nothing back will the magic work for you.

-Theobald Beckman, Master.

Raistlin sat on his stool in the classroom, hunched over his

desk, laboriously copying a spell. It was a sleep spell,

simple for an experienced wizard, but still far beyond the reach of a sixteen-year-old, no matter how

precocious. Raistlin knew this because, though he had been forbidden to do so, he had attempted to cast the spell.

Armed with his elementary spellbook, smuggled out of school beneath his shirt, and the requisite spell

component, Raistlin had tried to cast the sleep spell on his uneasy but steadfastly loyal brother. He had spoken

the words, flung the sand into Caramon's face, and waited.

"Stop that, Caramon! Put your hands down." "But, Raist! I got sand in my eyes!"

"You're supposed to be asleep!"

"I'm sorry, Raist. I guess I'm just not tired. It's almost suppertime."

With a deep sigh, Raistlin had returned the spellbook to its place at his desk, the sand to its jar in the

laboratory. He had been forced to acknowledge that perhaps Master Theobald knew what he was talking abouton

this occas ion, at least. Casting a magic spell required something more than words and sand. If that was all it

took, Gordo would have been a mage and not slaughtering sheep, as he was now.

"The magic comes from within," Master Theobald had lectured. "It begins at the center of your being, flows

outward. The words pick up the magic as it surges from your heart up into your brain and from thence into your

mouth. Speaking the words, you give the magic form and substance, and thus you cast the spell. Words spoken

from an empty mouth do nothing but move the lips."

And though Raistlin more than suspected Master Theobald of having copied this lecture from someone else

(in fact, Raistlin was to find it several years later, in a book written by Par-Salian), the young student had been

impressed by the words and had noted them down carefully in the front of his spellbook.

That speech was in his thoughts as he copied-for the hundredth time-the spell onto scrap paper, preparatory to

copying the spell into his primer. A leather-bound book, the primer was given to each novice mage who had

passed his initial test. The novitiate would copy into his primer every spell committed to memory. In addition, he

must also know how to pronounce correctly the words of the spell and how to write it onto a scroll, and he must

know and have collected any components that the spell required.

Every quarter Master Theobald tested the novitiates -there were two in his school, Raistlin and Jon Farnish-on

the spells they had learned. If the students performed to the master's satisfaction, they were permitted to write the

spell into their primers. Only yesterday, at the end of the spring quarter, Raistlin had taken the test on his new

spell and had passed it easily Jon Farnish, by contrast, had failed, having transposed two letters in the third word.

Master Theobald had given Raistlin permission to copy down the spell-the very sleep spell he had attempted to

cast-into his primer. The master had sent Jon Farnish to copy the spell out two hundred times, until he could

write it correctly.

Raistlin knew the sleep spell backward and forward and inside out. He could have written it upside down

while standing on his head. Yet he could not make it work. He had even prayed to the gods of magic, asking for

their help, as they had given him help during his elementary test. The gods were not forthcoming.

He did not doubt the gods. He doubted himself. It was some fault within him, something he was doing wrong.

And so, instead of copying the spell into his primer, Raistlin was doing much the same as Jon Farnish, going over

and over the words, meticulously writing down every letter until he could convince himself that he had not made

a single mistake.

A shadow-a broad shadow-fell across his page.

He looked up. "Yes, Master?" he said, trying to hide his irritation at the interruption and not quite succeeding.