by Kevin Stein
Chapter 11
“My family has lived in Mereklar for hundreds of years,” Councillor Shavas said, sitting in front of the fire in the main library of her estate after a sumptuous dinner, a large, untouched glass of brandy in her fine hands.
The flames played behind her, casting flickering lights and shadows, framing her poised, fluid form. She talked comfortably with the brothers, as if she had known them all their lives. Her beauty was matchless. Her voice was like sweet flowing amber.
Small wonder, then, that neither Caramon nor Raistlin noticed the absence of the kender.
“And you say your ancestors lived in the surrounding countryside?” Raistlin huddled near the fire. He held a glass of brandy in his golden hand, and it also remained untouched, the mage unwilling to sacrifice his self-control for physical pleasures. His hood was cast back, and the fire flared in his eyes, filling their darkness with flame.
“Yes, that is correct. I am, however, unsure of the exact location,” the councillor replied.
Raistlin saw that although the woman spoke to both him and his brother, she kept her gaze fixed on him. And he did not see in her eyes the loathing or fear he was accustomed to seeing in the eyes of women. In the eyes of this woman he saw fascination, admiration. It made his blood tingle.
“Perhaps their origin could be found in this library?” Raistlin suggested, sweeping an arm to indicate the thousands of volumes of books lining the walls. He remembered what he’d been told, that some of them were magical. “If you would like, I could help you search.”
“Yes, I think I would like that very much,” the councillor said. A slight flush suffused her pale skin. She glanced into her drink, then lifted her large eyes to stare again at the mage.
Raistlin studied the woman in front of him. Something was wrong, something was bothering him, nagging at him, demanding his attention. But, dazzled by her beauty, he couldn’t think what. Perhaps it was Shavas herself. She had told them much … and nothing. He’d learned more talking with people in the street. He felt she was hiding something, something she would reveal to him alone. The mage cast a sharp, meaningful glance at his brother.
Caramon pretended not to notice. He had witnessed his brother’s dealings with others before. He knew of Raistlin’s constant manipulations and maneuverings, the way he let a subtle hint fall on interested ears, alluding to things he only guessed at, coercing his prey into letting slip information that was best kept from the knowledge of others. The fighter was always ashamed by the mage’s need to display cognitive superiority over others. Besides, Caramon didn’t want to leave the presence of this beautiful woman. Caramon had noted that, though she talked to Raistlin, she seemed to be constantly looking at the big warrior.
“Well, Master Wizard,” said Shavas, breaking what had become an uncomfortable silence, “will you and your brother help our city in its hour of grave need?”
“It says here,” the mage stated, pulling a rolled piece of parchment from under his robes, “that the fee for the job is ‘negotiable.’ Exactly how much room for negotiation exists?”
“The fee quoted by the Minister of Finance is ten thousand steel pieces,” Shavas said.
Caramon’s mouth dropped open. Ten thousand steel was more money than he had made in his life, let alone at once. Thoughts of what such a large sum of money could buy raced through his head: An inn! No, a huge tavern, with a fireplace in the middle and a dozen rooms and stables out in back. He imagined a house perched high in the vallenwoods of Solace and grew so excited that he stood up and began to roam around the room, bumping into things, overturning a small chair.
“Caramon,” said Raistlin irritably. “Where is Earwig?”
“I don’t know,” Caramon answered. “It’s not my day to watch him.”
The councillor looked alarmed, her face filling with sudden apprehension.
“I don’t want him wandering around my house! There are too many precious things that shouldn’t be touched! Would you go and search for him, sir?”
Caramon, looking into the woman’s eyes, felt that if she had asked him to go to the Abyss and find a five-headed dragon, he would have left immediately.
“Sure. Glad to, my lady,” he said. He walked out of the room by the side door, closing it loudly behind him.
Raistlin stood from his chair, using the Staff of Magius for support, though he felt no more tired than he had earlier that afternoon. Walking to a bookshelf, he leaned against it, stealing surreptitious glances at the texts. Perhaps whatever was troubling him emanated from the books.
“There is something I need to ask you, my lady.”
“Call me Shavas, please,” she said, moving nearer to him.
The mage ran a golden hand along the spines of several books. Dust collected on his fingers, and he regarded the fine gray powder with a frown, disliking the treatment the texts received. He rubbed his fingers together, letting the dust fall onto the carpet. “What is our success worth to you?”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand the question,” Shavas replied, shaking her head slightly and furrowing her arched brows.
“It is very simple, Councillor,” Raistlin said, moving, unconsciously, nearer to her. “What value do you place on our success?”
“It would mean saving the city and the entire world, of course. It means everything to me, because unless you succeed, there will be nothing left but darkness and despair.” Shavas said this casually, without undue excitement. She even smiled slightly, as if darkness and despair weren’t anything she couldn’t handle. “What do you expect me to say? That your success is worth the wealth of the entire city? That you could take anything you wanted, Master Wizard?” She glanced at Raistlin alluringly.
He felt his body react to her presence and immediately angrily raised his defenses. “I am not a Master Wizard. I have not attained that high level,” he said with mocking humility. “Forgive me, I was only asking on principle. I am sorry if you feel offended,” he added, pulling the cowl of his red robes over his head.
The councillor stepped away from him. “Then you agree to our terms?”
“Oh, no, I didn’t say that at all. I will have to take time to consider,” the mage said from the depths of his robes.
“You will tell me tomorrow?” Shavas inquired, with a touch of impatience.
“Perhaps.” Raistlin turned back to the fire and was startled to feel Shavas moving again to stand near him. Gold mask in place, he asked harshly, “Is there something wrong, Councillor?”
“No,” she said, pulling back slightly and placing a hand over the necklace she wore at her throat. “It’s just that I’ve never been this close to a mage before.”
“You have no mystics in Mereklar?” Raistlin asked with a rise in his voice.
“Yes, that is correct. No mage has entered the city for a very long time.”
“And why is that, I wonder?”
“I don’t know.” Shavas shrugged white shoulders. After a moment’s consideration, she added, “There was a wizard who lived in the mountains. But I hear he was killed long ago by some … evil force.”
“Spooks,” said Raistlin, half-smiling.
“What?” The woman looked startled.
“Nothing, just some inanity of my brother’s. What kind of force killed him?”
“I’m not sure. It’s only a legend which began long before I was born. What you said about ‘spooks,’ though. I have heard that he was killed by ghosts. Is that common among wizards?”
“That type of magic is not in the realm of my studies, Councillor. I am no necromancer.”
Shavas leaned forward slightly. “Have you ever considered becoming one?”
She was almost touching him. Raistlin stared at her. “Why, Councillor?” he asked softly. “Are you offering to teach me?”
The woman laughed merrily. “How droll you are! As if I could teach you anything! I know nothing of magic and magicians.”
Yes, my lady, that is what you claim, but why do you
ask a question like that? And why do you keep a library filled with magical books if you can’t read them? the mage wondered, but he said nothing.
A moment of silence passed between councillor and magician. Raistlin looked slowly around the library. Shavas stood motionless, her head angled slightly back to observe the mage’s movements. The braid of her hair shone a rich reddish brown. No light from the fire reached her deep green eyes, but they glittered like emeralds.
“Where were you going before you decided to come to Mereklar?” she asked.
Raistlin ran his fingers along the volumes, reading some of their titles and the names of the authors who wrote them.
“You have an excellent collection of books, Councillor,” he said, finding a particularly interesting manuscript, History of Modern Philosophies.
“Thank you, but you still haven’t answered my question.”
Raistlin turned to face his hostess, letting the book fall back into place. “My companions and I were on our way across New Sea on personal business.” His voice was cold, almost insulting.
“Now it is my turn to say that I am sorry if I have offended,” the councillor said, gliding back to her seat.
Raistlin took advantage of the opportunity to dip his finger slightly into the glass he had set on a nearby table. When he was sure the councillor was not looking at him, he drew his finger across his eyes, causing them to tear from the alcohol. The mage scanned the room quickly, staring up at the ceiling and to the walls.
The line—the stream of age and untold power—did not appear. Where is it? It must lead here from Southgate Street and cut through the house!
Raistlin moved to look out a window to the road that led from the gate, hoping he would find the line there, but the pane of glass was opaque.
“Are you looking for something, Raistlin?” Shavas asked in concern.
“I have a cinder in my eyes,” he said, rubbing them. Then the knowledge struck him. He knew what had been bothering him.
His hourglass eyes saw the effects of time on everything upon which his gaze fell. The Masters of the Tower had cast this curse upon him, hoping to teach him compassion for others, hoping to remind him that all men were alike, all men dying. He saw the books on the shelves rotting away, their leather bindings cracking and fading. He saw the tables lose their lacquered sheens and grow old, their timbers and slats fall in scattered stacks. But when he looked at Shavas, he saw her young, beautiful, unchanging.
This can’t be! he railed, massaging his eyes with his hand. When he opened his eyes again, he felt his body grow cold. The councillor’s form was now nothing but a rotting corpse, struck down by the passage of untold eons, an abomination to life, something unspeakable and unnatural, a travesty that must be destroyed.
What new joke have the masters played on me now? Raistlin demanded silently. He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, attempting to shut out the horrible sight he had just witnessed.
“What is wrong?” Shavas asked, rising to her feet. She moved closer, and Raistlin felt her hands touch his golden flesh. He felt the touch of a woman, the fatal touch of something he never expected to feel.
“As I have said, I am fine,” Raistlin replied tersely. He snatched his arm away from the woman’s grasp.
She gazed at him, hurt, reminding him of Caramon.
Raistlin sighed. His hand reached for the staff, but he had left it standing beside the bookshelves.
“Please forgive me, Councillor. I’m not used to anyone … touching me. I apologize if I seem rude.”
“No apologies are necessary, Raistlin. I think I understand. You have been misused, ill-treated. You raise your defenses swiftly.” The councillor lifted her hand and placed it on the mage’s arm. “I assure you, sir,” she murmured, drawing nearer until he could smell the fragrance of her hair, “that you need no defenses around me!”
Raistlin caught his breath, feeling as if he were smothering. But the sensation, unlike his illness, was a pleasant one. She was beautiful to his eyes, the only thing of beauty he’d seen in a long, long time. His arm glided around the woman’s slender body, and he pulled her near.
Chapter 12
Caramon walked the corridors of the councillor’s house, becoming increasingly nervous with each step, though he could not imagine why. Nothing in the estate had been any more menacing than an inanimate suit of armor in the library. He rubbed at the muscles in his right leg, a very slight bruise rising blue on his flesh.
“How did that happen?” he asked himself. “I don’t remember bumping into anything.”
The hall led him from the library to the middle of the house. Here the corridor was dimly lit with a strange color, vaguely purple or lavender. Brass oil lamps, spaced at regular intervals and mounted directly to the wall, gave only a faint glow, the frosted glass covering the wicks and diffusing the yellow-white flames into almost nothing.
“Why the devil does she keep it so dark in here?” Caramon said to himself, wondering which of the many doors the kender might be behind. “Earwig! Earwig! Where are you?”
He wandered the house calling, waiting for an answer and finally, after what seemed like hours, heard one.
“Caramon? Is that you?”
“Of course, it’s me! Where are you?”
“In here!”
Caramon walked a few paces to a door in the middle of the hall. He twisted the knob, walked in, and stopped dead. “Shavas’s bedroom,” he said.
He knew he should leave, he knew what he was doing was highly improper. But he couldn’t help himself. The beauty and alluring mystery of the room seemed to beckon him forward. Besides, he told himself, he’d heard the kender’s voice and the last thing the lady would want would be the kender in amid her personal belongings.
“I’ll just slip in and take a quick look around for Earwig,” Caramon said softly, entering the room. Without quite knowing what he was doing or why, he shut the door behind him.
The councillor’s bedroom was comfortably lit, much brighter than the hallway. An abundance of candles burned in holders, each a different shape from the other, each some type of animal or creature: griffons, dragons, and other wondrous or grotesque creatures. The melting wax gave off a faint perfume that reminded Caramon of the woman herself. Desire made him tingle, and he found himself standing next to her bed.
The bed frame was made of brass, decorated with the same bizarre creatures who held the candles. It dominated the back of the room. Curtains and drapes of gray silk hung from the ceiling and metal supports. Dressers and drawers were scattered about, lacquered black and red and orange, with pictures of odd birds and twisted trees and weird flowers. There were six chairs of the same design. Small boxes of gold and silver and other precious metals, their intricate detail and textures belaying a hint of great age, covered three tables. Though he was no expert in metalworking, the fighter could tell that the boxes were built by a master craftsmen.
The floors were embellished by a rich carpet, filled with swirls and ribbons and circles, the same colors as everything else in the room. Several mirrors were mounted to the walls, and a full-size mirror, held by a frame of gold, stood in one corner, reflecting Caramon’s image. The warrior noticed that his reflection in the mirror seemed to be coming from farther away than he actually was.
“How long have I been standing here?” he asked out loud, blinking, the sound of his voice lifting the fascinating, lascivious spell of the room. “And where’s Earwig?” Glancing about nervously, the fighter searched the room. He found nothing, no sign of a kender.
“I should leave,” he said, leaning on a smooth, black-stained table painted with orange flowers and green leaves. The wood felt surprisingly warm under his palms. Without thinking, he took hold of a piece of cloth that had been thrown casually on the table, his fingers caressing it. Moving to sit on the bed, he held the cloth without noticing what he was doing, working his hands over the cool, smooth fabric.
“The councillor is the most magnificent woman
I’ve ever seen,” he murmured. The cloth was growing warm beneath his fingers. “I wonder what she’s like?” Caramon said very softly.
Rising to his feet, he walked over to the full mirror again, studying his face—a face many considered handsome. His body was scarred from numerous battles, his muscles held unmatched strength. Drawing a deep breath, the fighter watched his huge chest expand, his arms grow firm.
Then he saw what he held in his hand.
“What am I doing?” Face burning in embarrassment, he moved swiftly back to the table, starting to replace the black-silk shawl he had been fondling, when a high-pitched voice shrilled behind him.
“What have you got in your hand, Caramon?”
“Nothing!” he yelled, spinning to face the kender, who was gazing up and smiling at the fighter.
“What’s that?” Earwig asked, reaching around Caramon to the table.
“Don’t touch it!” the warrior said quickly. “Just something of … of the councillor’s.”
“Oh,” the kender said, shrugging.
“Come on, Earwig! We shouldn’t be in here,” said Caramon severely, feeling guilty and taking it out on the kender.
The warrior headed hurriedly for the door. Earwig started to follow when he noticed a small box sitting on one of the tables.
Pick me up! Pick me up!
“What?” said Earwig, pausing, staring at the box in delight.
“I didn’t say anything!” snapped Caramon. Bumbling into a large, hand-painted screen, he almost knocked it over and was grappling with it, trying to keep it from falling.
Pick me up! Pick me up!
“You bet!” cried the kender. Grabbing the box, he thrust it quickly into one his pouches.
“Earwig!”
Caramon, having righted the screen, was standing near the door. He was using That Voice again. Earwig caught up with him and they left the room, the warrior carefully shutting the door behind them.
