"Even if it were proof of anything," Morath went on matter-of-factly, "I require all applicants to be at least eight years of age and to be able to read difficult and obscure texts with ease. This is not a school for reading fundamentals. This boy is too small. Too young. He would lag behind the others, some of whom are already, in many ways, young men."
Gilon was about to respond, when Raistlin piped up in his own defense. "I can read," he said simply. "I can read anything."
Morath looked annoyed. He rose from his seat and strode to a nearby shelf, pausing for a moment before pulling out one of the larger, more auspicious tomes. He handed it to Raistlin, who staggered briefly under its weight. The six-year-old sat down on the floor, cross-legged, with the book straddling his lap. Then he looked up at the master mage for instructions.
"Turn to the third chapter," Morath commanded, "and start reading the fourth paragraph down. Proper enunciation, please."
With some difficulty, Raistlin opened the musty book and turned to its lengthy table of contents. Completely absorbed in his task, he ran his finger down the table, located the chapter's page number, and turned to it. Again he used his finger to find the paragraph, then began reading in his reedy voice.
"A mage turns his body into a conductor of energy streams and currents from all zones of existence. Through correct incantations, he is able to draw in certain forces or combination of forces, and then to reshape and redirect them as he wishes..." Morath watched Raist intently. Kit thought the master mage was contriving to conceal his reaction. The ranks of mages were thin enough these days; she imagined he could ill afford to turn away any pupil. Yet magic-users were notoriously arrogant and did not act out of necessity or logic. Morath's criteria would have to be met. Resolutely, Raist read on.
"That's enough," Morath said curtly, snatching the book out of the boys hands and replacing it on the shelf.
Interrupted in midsentence, Raist looked up, startled. His eyes were wide with irritation, Kit could tell. She knew her look-alike eyes betrayed the same reaction. Gilon was off to one side, his big hands dangling awkwardly at his sides, silent and unsure as to how to act.
Morath circled the wide room, his face fraught with annoyance. He fingered certain books as he brushed up against the shelves. Deep in concentration, he virtually ignored the three visitors who tensely awaited his next move. Kit and Gilon looked at each other uncertainly.
The filtered sunlight from above bathed the master mage in a golden glow as he passed Kit. For a moment, before his stern features came under shadow again, Kit had a less fearsome impression of Morath.
"Answer me this," the master mage said suddenly, turning to address Raistlin who was still sitting cross-legged on the floor. Raist stood expectantly. "What do you suppose is the nickname of this place, a name I am not supposed to know but which is used, familiarly, by all the aspiring mages behind my back?
A sliver of a smile, not altogether unfriendly in its effect, played on Morath's lips as he bent in Raistlin's direction.
"Why it's the mage school, that's all," blurted out Gilon. Kitiara shot her stepfather a withering glance. Gilon's face wilted, realizing he had blundered.
"No, no," said Morath contemptuously. "Let the boy answer." A moment of silence followed, as Morath's eyes met Raistlin's. Again, the little boy did not flinch, but withstood the master mage's direct gaze.
"There's nothing fancy about it, nothing secret," said Morath with mock congeniality.
"But only those who are privileged to study here learn of it. Concentrate, boy. Take a guess. Or do you give up?"
Old Hilltop, Kitiara guessed to herself.
Raistlin took his time before responding. "Hilltop would be the obvious choice," he said finally, speaking slowly, "and—"
"Wrong! Wrong!" cackled Morath, straightening up. He was a trifle obvious in his glee.
"You didn't let me finish!" snapped Raistlin, raising his voice most disrespectfully. Gilon winced. Kitiara had to repress a smile.
"And that is why, I was saying, they probably invented some name like Poolbottom or Drywater. I don't see why it's important, or much of a test," Raist finished sulkily.
"It's not important!" Morath snapped back, raising his voice and baring his teeth. "I didn't say it was important!"
The master mage swirled his robe and retreated to the double iron doors with an angry flourish. "You may leave now," he commanded.
Their faces glum, the three trooped toward the entrance, but Morath stepped in front of Raist, who was last, blocking his movement.
"Not you," he said decisively. When the others looked at him for some explanation, Morath said with obvious pique, "It is Poolbottom. Poolbottom! Stupid name. If a sixyear-old can guess it, then it may as well be Dungdeep!" With a shrug, the master mage yanked a pullcord that hung next to the doors. One of the massive bookshelves swung open like a sluice gate to reveal an annex tucked behind it, rectangular and sparsely furnished with a modest table and two ordinary chairs.
