well the hours that the Conclave would spend bickering, I
knew well none of you would agree! I made my decision. Do
any of you challenge my right to do so?”
Tas held his breath, feeling Par-Salian’s anger roll around the
hall like thunder. The Black Robes sank back into their stone
seats, muttering. Par-Salian was silent for a moment, then his
eyes went back to Caramon, and their stern glance softened.
“I chose Raistlin,” he said.
Caramon scowled. “Why?” he demanded.
“I had my reasons,” Par-Salian said gently. “Some of them I
cannot explain to you, not even now. But I can tell you this –
he was born with the gift. And that is most important. The
magic dwells deep within your brother. Did you know that,
from the first day Raistlin attended school, his own master held
him in fear and awe. How does one teach a pupil who knows
more than the teacher? And combined with the gift of magic is
intelligence. Raistlin’s mind is never at rest. It seeks knowledge,
demands answers. And he is courageous – perhaps more cou-
rageous than you are, warrior. He fights pain every day of his
life. He has faced death more than once and defeated it. He
fears nothing – neither the darkness nor the light. And his soul
…” Par-Salian paused. “His soul burns with ambition, the
desire for power, the desire for more knowledge. I knew that
nothing, not even the fear of death itself, would stop him from
attaining his goals. And I knew that the goals he sought to
attain might well benefit the world, even if he, himself, should
choose to turn his back upon it.”
Par-Salian paused. When he spoke, it was with sorrow. “But
first he had to take the Test.”
“You should have foreseen the outcome,” the red-robed mage
said, speaking in the same mild tone. “We all knew he was wait-
ing, biding his time….”
“I had no choice!” Par-Salian snapped, his blue eyes flashing.
“Our time was running out. The world’s time was running out.
The young man had to take the Test and assimilate what he had
learned. I could delay no longer.”
Caramon stared from one to the other. “You knew Raist was
in some kind of danger when you brought him here?”
“There is always danger,” Par-Salian answered. “The Test is
designed to weed out those who might be harmful to them-
selves, to the Order, to the innocents in the world.” He put his
hand to his head, rubbing his brows. “Remember, too, that the
Test is designed to teach as well. We hoped to teach your
brother compassion to temper his selfish ambition, we hoped
to teach him mercy, pity. And, it was, perhaps, in my eagerness
to teach that I made a mistake. I forgot Fistandantilus.”
“Fistandantilus?” Caramon said in confusion. “What do you
mean – forgot him? From what you’ve said, that old mage is
dead.”
“Dead? No.” Par-Salian’s face darkened. “The blast that
killed thousands in the Dwarven Wars and laid waste a land
that is still devastated and barren did not kill Fistandantilus.
His magic was powerful enough to defeat death itself. He
moved to another plane of existence, a plane far from here, yet
not far enough. Constantly he watched, biding his time,
searching for a body to accept his soul. And he found that
body – your brother’s.”
Caramon listened in tense silence, his face deathly white.
Out of the corner of his eye, Tas saw Bupu start edging back-
ward. He grabbed her hand and held onto her tightly, keeping
the terrified gully dwarf from turning and fleeing headlong out
of the hall.
“Who knows what deal the two made during the Test? None
of us, probably.” Par-Salian smiled slightly. “I know this. Raist-
lin did superbly, yet his frail health was failing him. Perhaps he
could have survived the final test – the confrontation with the
dark elf – if Fistandantilus had not aided him. Perhaps not.”
“Aided him? He saved his life?”
Par-Salian shrugged. “We know only this, warrior – it was
not any of us who left your brother with that gold-tinted skin.
The dark elf cast a fireball at him, and Raistlin survived.