He recalled brightly colored clothes and music and eating too many sweets . . . cookies … He seemed to
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smell fresh-baked cookies . . .
The Festival of the Eye!
Raistlin sat up quickly, causing his head to grow light and his sight dim. He fell over sideways on the bed, closing his eyes, reaching for the staff as he often did when weakness came upon him. When he touched the black wood, a huge sphere of lightning appeared, surrounding his arm, lighting the room with blue flame.
Caramon cried out in alarm, but the room grew dark again as the last vestiges of magic expended itself, released and channeled into the labyrinths of power within the staff.
Raistlin sat up. A bitter smile twisted his lips as he recalled his youth— a time when he was a target for contempt.
The Festival of the Eye. Once a year, the children were allowed to pretend they were adults. He’d worn the robes of a wizard, crudely sewn by the impatient and clumsy hands of his older half-sister, Kitiara. She had outfitted Caramon as a warrior, complete with wooden shield and sword, then took the twins from door to door, begging for the special cookies that were made in honor of that night. It had been the brothers’ last festival together with their sister. Kit had left them soon after, to make her own way in the world.
That night, when they were returning home to gloat over their treasures in private, Raistlin had suddenly become ill, pain clenching his stomach and sides. His brother and half-sister had been forced to carry him. When he spat to remove a bitter taste in his mouth, a small gout of blue flame had shot out. He could still recall the looks of alarm he’d seen on the faces of his siblings.
The next morning, Raistlin was fine. The sickness had
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never occurred again, and neither the brothers nor their sister had ever told anyone else what had happened.
Raistlin thought that now he was beginning to understand,
“Hand me my pack,” he ordered his brother.
Mystified, Caramon obeyed.
The mage rummaged in it. Pulling out a small book, he flipped through the pages. Caramon, peering over his brother’s shoulder, saw nothing but rows and columns of numbers printed on the yellowing pages. Phases and positions of the moons were also indicated.
Some of the dates had large circles around some of the numbers, when pictures of the two moons created a single dot on the page. Raistlin continued to leaf through the book, stopping when he reached the middle. Opening the book wide, making the binding crack in complaint, he laid it down on the bed in front of him. After a moment of silent calculation, he closed it and tossed it into his pack.
“What?” asked Caramon.
“The Festival of the Eye,” said Raistlin, “Remember? A long time ago, when we were little?”
Caramon’s eyes crinkled in thought. Suddenly, his mouth sagged. “I’ll be damned,” he murmured, staring at his brother. “What does it mean? It’s just a holiday, that’s all.”
“To most of you, it is,” Raistlin said, somewhat bitterly. “It’s a time to dress up and break the routine of dull existence. But to us, to wizards, it is much, much more.”
“Yeah, I remember,” said Caramon. “You’re supposed to offer your services free.”
“Bah! That’s the least of it!” Raistlin snarled impatiently. “It is, in reality, a time of great magical power. It began untold ages ago when three sorcerers of tremendous and unparalleled skill gave their lives to their crafts, ending their existence in one final, ultimate expenditure
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that drained their souls. They used the energy to create a force infinitely more potent than any one could ever summon on his own.”
Caramon shifted uncomfortably, as he often did when his twin discussed his arcane craft.
“Certain mystical texts stated that the wizards were each dedicated to one of the three alignments,” Raistlin continued. “Good, neutral, and evil—the incantations required all three members from the Great Balance of the World. Some of the books say that the wizards cast the spell to gamble on the future for their deities, hoping that their particular alignment would wrest control of the power when the time came.” Raistlin shrugged. “The sorcerers chose the game, but the gods cast the dice. The wizards died, the energy remained pent up. The texts say that the energy will be released only when the Great Eye is in the heavens.”