Seven winters passed, with Raistlin absent from his home. In springtime, like this spring, when the sun melted the frozen roads and brought the first green and golden buds to the vallenwoods, the twins were reunited.
Long ago, Raistlin had given up secretly hoping that someday he would look into a mirror and see in himself the image of his handsome twin. Raistlin, with his fine-boned features and large eyes, his soft-to-the-touch reddish hair that brushed his shoulders, would have been the more handsome of the two but for his eyes. They held the gaze too long, stared too deeply, saw too much, and there was always the faint hint of scorn in them, for he saw clearly the shams and artifices and absurdities of people and was both amused and disgusted with them.
Jumping down from the cart, Caramon gave his brother a boisterous hug, which Raistlin did not return. He used the bundle of clothes he held in both arms as an excuse to avoid an overt show of affection, a show Raistlin found undignified and annoying. His body stiffened in his brother’s embrace, but Caramon was too excited to notice. He grabbed the bundle, flung it in the back of the cart.
“C’mon, I’ll help you up,” Caramon offered.
Raistlin was beginning to think he wasn’t as glad to see his twin as he’d first imagined. He had forgotten how irritating Caramon could be.
“I’m perfectly capable of climbing onto a farm cart without assistance,” Raistlin returned.
“Oh, sure, Raist.” Caramon grinned, not the least offended.
He was too stupid to be offended.
Raistlin pulled himself up onto the cart. Caramon bounded up into the driver’s seat. Grasping the reins, he made clucking sounds with his tongue at the horse, turned the beast around, and started back up the road toward Solace.
“What’s that?” Caramon jerked his head around, looked behind him at the school.
“Pay no attention to them, my brother,” Raistlin said quietly.
Classes were over. The master usually took advantage of this time of day to “meditate,” which meant that he could be found in the library with a closed book and an open bottle of the port wine for which Northern Ergoth was famous. He would remain in his meditative state until dinner, when the housekeeper would awaken him. The boys were supposed to use this time for study, but Master Theobald never checked on them, and so they were left to their own devices. Today a group had gathered at the back of the school to bid farewell to Raistlin.
“ ’Bye, Sly!” they were yelling in unison, the cry being led by their instigator, a tall boy with carrot-orange hair and freckles, who was new to the school.
“Sly!” Caramon looked at his brother. “They mean you, don’t they?” His brows came together in an angry scowl. “Whoa, there!” He brought the cart to a halt.
“Caramon, let it pass,” Raistlin said, placing his hand on his brother’s muscular arm.
“I won’t, Raist,” Caramon returned. “They shouldn’t call you names like that!” His hands clenched into fists that, for a thirteen-year-old, were formidable.
“Caramon, no!” Raistlin ordered sharply. “I will deal with them in my own time, in my own way.”
“Are you sure, Raist?” Caramon was glaring back at the taunting boys. “They won’t call you names like that if their lips are split open.”
“Not today, perhaps,” Raistlin said. “But I have to go back to them tomorrow. Now, drive on. I want to reach home before dark.”
Caramon obeyed. He always obeyed when his twin commanded. Raistlin was the acknowledged thinker of the two, a fact that Caramon cheerfully admitted. Caramon had come to depend on Raistlin’s guidance in most areas of life, including the games they played with the other boys, games such as Goblin Ball, Kender Keep Away, and Thane Beneath the Mountain. Due to his frail health, Raistlin could not participate in such exuberant sports, but he watched intently. His quick mind developed strategies for winning, which he passed on to his brother.
Minus Raistlin’s tutelage, Caramon would mistakenly score goals for his opponents in Goblin Ball. He nearly always ended up being the kender in Kender Keep Away, and he constantly fell victim to the military tactics of the older Sturm Brightblade in Thane Beneath the Mountain. When Raistlin was there to remind him which end of the field was which, and to offer cunning ploys to outwit his opponents, Caramon was the winner more often than not.
Once again he clucked at the horse. The cart rolled down the rutted road. The catcalls ended. The boys grew bored and turned to other sport.
“I don’t understand why you didn’t let me pound them,” Caramon complained.
Because, Raistlin answered silently, I know what would happen, how it would end. You would “pound them,” as you so elegantly put it, my brother. Then you would help them to their feet, slap them on their backs, tell them you know they didn’t mean it, and in the end you would all be the best of friends.
Except for me. Except for the “Sly One.”
No, the lesson will be mine to teach. They will learn what it means to be sly.
He might have continued to sit, brooding and plotting and mulling over such wrongs, but for his brother, who was rattling on about their parents, their friends, and the fine day. Caramon’s cheerful gossip teased his brother out of his ill humor. The air was soft and warm and smelled of growing things, compounded with horse and newly mown grass, much better smells than that of cooked cabbage and boys who bathed only once a week.
Raistlin breathed deeply of the soft, fragrant air and didn’t cough. The sunshine warmed him pleasantly. and he found himself listening with keen enjoyment to his brother’s conversation.
“Father’s been gone these last three weeks and likely won’t be back until the end of the month. Mother remembered that you were coming home today. She’s been a lot better lately, Raist. You’ll notice the change. Ever since the Widow Judith started coming to stay with her when she has her bad days.”
“Widow Judith?” said Raistlin sharply. “Who’s Judith? And what do you mean, stay with Mother when she has her bad days? What about you and Father?”
Caramon shifted uncomfortably on his seat. “It was a hard winter, Raist. You were gone. Father had to work. He couldn’t take off or we would have starved. When Farmer Sedge was snowed in and didn’t need me, I got a job in the stables, feeding the horses and mucking out. We tried leaving Mother alone, but—well, it wasn’t working. One day she tipped over a candle and didn’t notice. It nearly burned down the house. We did the best we could, Raist.”
Raistlin said nothing. He sat on the cart, grimly silent, angry at his father and brother. They should not have left his mother in the care of strangers. He was angry at himself. He should not have left her.
“The Widow Judith’s real nice, Raist,” Caramon went on defensively. “Mother likes her a lot. Judith comes every morning, and she helps Mother dress and fixes her hair. She makes her eat something, and then they do sewing and stuff like that. Judith talks to Mother a lot and keeps her from going into her fits.” He glanced uneasily at his brother. “Sorry, I mean trances.”
“What do they talk about?” Raistlin asked.
Caramon looked startled. “I dunno. Female stuff, I guess. I never listened.”
“And how can we afford to pay this woman?”
Caramon grinned. “We don’t pay her. That’s what’s great about this, Raist! She does it for nothing.”
“Since when have we lived off charity?” Raistlin demanded.
“It’s not charity. Raist. We offered to pay her, but she wouldn’t take it. She helps others as part of her religion—that new order we heard about in Haven. The Belzorites or some such thing. She’s one of them.”
“I don’t like this,” Raistlin said, frowning. “No one does something for nothing. What is she after?”
“After? What could she be after? It’s not like we have a house crammed with jewels. The Widow Judith’s just a nice person, Raist. Can’t you believe that?”
Apparently Raistlin could not, for he continued to ask questions. “How did y
ou come across such a ‘nice person,’ my brother?”
“Actually, she came to us,” Caramon said after taking a moment to recollect. “She came to the door one day and said that she’d heard Mother wasn’t feeling well. She knew we men-folk”—Caramon spoke the plural with a touch of pride—“needed to be out working and said that she’d be glad to sit with Mother while we were gone. She told us she was a widow lady, her own man was dead, her children grown and moved on. She was lonely herself. And the High Priest of Belzor had commanded her to help others.”
“Who is Belzor?” Raistlin asked suspiciously.
By this time, even Caramon’s patience was exhausted.
“Name of the Abyss, I don’t know, Raistlin,” he said. “Ask her yourself. Only be nice to the Widow Judith, all right? She’s been real nice to us.” Raistlin did not bother to respond. He fell into another brooding silence.
He did not himself know why this should upset him. Perhaps it was nothing more than his own feelings of guilt for having abandoned his mother to the care of strangers. Yet something about this wasn’t quite right. Caramon and his father were too trusting, too ready to believe in the goodness of people. They could both be easily taken in. No one devoted hours of her day to caring for another without expecting to gain something by it. No one.
Caramon was casting his brother worried, anxious glances. “You’re not mad at me, Raist, are you? I’m sorry I snapped at you. It’s just … well, you haven’t met the widow yet, and—”
“You seem to be faring well, my brother,” Raistlin interrupted. He did not want to hear any more about Judith.
Caramon straightened his back proudly. “I’ve grown four inches since fall. Father measured me on the doorframe. I’m taller than all our friends now, even Sturm.”
Raistlin had noticed. He could not help but notice that Caramon was no longer a child. He had grown that winter into a comely young man—sturdy, tall for his age, with a mass of curly hair and wide-open, almost unbearably honest brown eyes. He was cheerful and easygoing, polite to his elders, fun-loving and companionable. He would laugh heartily at any joke, even if it was against himself. He was considered a friend by every young person in town, from the stern and generally morose Sturm Brightblade to the toddlers of Farmer Sedge, who clamored for rides on Caramon’s broad shoulders.
As for the adults, their neighbors, especially the women, felt sorry for the lonely boy and were always inviting him to share a meal with the family. Due to the fact that he never turned down a free meal, even if he’d already just eaten, Caramon was probably the best-fed youngster in Solace.
“Any word from Kitiara?” Raistlin asked.
Caramon shook his head. “Nothing all winter. It’s been over a year now since we heard from her. Do you think … I mean … Maybe she’s dead.…”
The brothers exchanged glances, and in that exchange, the resemblance between the two, not usually noticeable, was quite apparent. Both shook their heads. Caramon laughed.
“All right, so she’s not dead. Where is she, then?”
“Solamnia,” said Raistlin.
“What?” Caramon was astonished. “How do you know that?”
“Where else would she go? She went to search for her father, or at least for his people, her kin.”
“Why would she need them?” Caramon wondered. “She’s got us.”
Raistlin snorted and said nothing.
“She’ll be back for us, at any rate,” Caramon said confidently. “Will you go with her, Raist?”
“Perhaps,” Raistlin said. “After I’ve passed the Test.”
“Test? Is that like the tests Father gives?” Caramon looked indignant. “Miss one lousy sum and get sent to bed without any supper. A guy could starve to death! And what good is arithmetic to a warrior, anyway? Whack! Whack!”
Caramon slashed an imaginary sword through the air, startling the horse. “Hey! Oops. Sorry, there, Bess. I suppose I might need to know numbers for counting the heads of all the goblins I’m going to kill or how many pieces of pie to cut, but that’s it. I certainly don’t need twice-times and divisors and all that.”
“Then you will grow up ignorant,” said Raistlin coldly. “Like a gully dwarf.”
Caramon clapped his brother on the shoulder. “I don’t care. You can do all the twice-times for me.”
“There might be a time when I am not there, Caramon,” Raistlin said.
“We’ll always be together, Raist,” Caramon returned complacently. “We’re twins. I need you for twice-times. You need me to look after you.”
Raistlin sighed inwardly, conceding this to be true. And it wouldn’t be so bad, he thought. Caramon’s brawn combined with my brain …
“Stop the cart!” Raistlin ordered.
Startled, Caramon yanked on the reins, brought the horse to a halt. “What is it? You got to go pee? Should I come with you? What?”
Raistlin slid off the seat. “Stay there. Wait for me. I won’t be long.”
Landing on the hard-baked dirt, he left the road and plunged into the thick weeds and underbrush. Beyond him, a stand of wheat rippled like a golden lake, washed up against a shoreline of dark green pines. Pawing through the weeds, shoving them aside impatiently, Raistlin searched for the glint of white he’d seen from the cart.
There it was. White flowers with waxy petals, set against large, dark green leaves with saw-toothed edges. Tiny filaments hung from the leaves. Raistlin paused, inspected the plant. He identified it easily. The problem was how to gather it. He ran back to the cart.
“What is it?” Caramon craned his neck to see. “A snake? Did you find a snake?”
“A plant,” Raistlin said. Reaching into the cart, he grabbed hold of his bundle of clothes, pulled out a shirt. He returned to his find.
“A plant …” Caramon repeated, his face wrinkling in puzzlement. He brightened. “Can you eat it?”
Raistlin did not reply. He knelt beside the plant, the shirt wrapped around his hand. With his left hand, he unclasped a small knife from his belt, and, moving cautiously, careful to keep his bare hand from brushing against the filaments, he snipped several of the leaves from the stem. He picked up the leaves with the hand protected by the shirt and, carrying them gingerly, returned to the wagon.
Caramon stared. “All that for a bunch of leaves?”
“Don’t touch it!” Raistlin warned.
Caramon snatched his hand back. “Why not?”
“You see those little filaments on the leaves?”
“Fill-a-whats?”
“Hairs. The tiny hairs on the leaves? This plant is called ‘stinging nettle.’ Touch the leaves and they’ll sting you enough to raise red welts on your skin. It’s very painful. Sometimes people even die from it, if they react badly to it.”
“Ugh!” Caramon peered down at the nettle leaves lying in the bottom of the wagon. “What do you want a plant like that for?”
Raistlin settled himself back onto the wagon’s seat. “I study them.”
“But they could hurt you!” Caramon protested. “Why do you want to study something that could hurt you?”
“You practice with the sword Kitiara brought you. Remember the first time you swung it? You nearly cut your foot off!”
“I still have the scar,” Caramon said sheepishly. “Yeah, I guess that’s true.” He clucked at the horse and the cart lurched forward.
The brothers spoke of other matters after that. Caramon did most of the talking, relating the news of Solace—those who had newly moved into town, those who had left, those who had been born, and those who had died. He told of the small adventures of their group of friends, children with whom they’d grown up. And the truly remarkable news: A kender had taken up residency. The one who’d caused such a stir at the fair. He’d moved in with that grumpy dwarf metalsmith; much to the dwarf’s ire, but what could you do about it, short of drowning the kender, whose untimely demise was expected daily. Raistlin listened in silence, letting his brother’s voice flow over him
, warming him like the spring sunshine.
Caramon’s cheerful, mindless prattle removed some of the dread Raistlin felt, dread about going home and seeing his mother again. Her health had always been failing, it seemed to him. The winters drained her, sapped her strength. Every spring he returned to find her a little paler, a little thinner, a little farther removed into her dream world. As for this Widow Judith helping her, he would believe that when he saw it.
“I can drop you off at the crossroads, Raist,” Caramon offered. “I have to work in the fields until sundown. Or you can come with me if you want. You can rest in the wagon until it’s time go home. That way we can walk back together.”
“I’ll go with you, my brother,” Raistlin said placidly.
Caramon flushed with pleasure. He started telling Raistlin all about the family life of Farmer Sedge and the little Sedges.
Raistlin cared nothing about any of them. He had staved off the hour when he must return home, he had insured that he would not be alone when he first encountered Rosamun. And he had made Caramon happy. It took so little to make Caramon happy.
Raistlin glanced back at the stinging nettle leaves he’d gathered. Noticing that they were starting to wilt in the sunshine, he tenderly wrapped the shirt more closely around them.
“Jon Farnish,” said Master Theobald, sitting at his desk at the front of the class. “The assignment was to gather six herbs that may be used for spell components. Come forward and show us what you found.”
Jon Farnish, red hair gleaming, his freckled face carefully arranged to appear solemn and studious—at least while it was in view of the master—slid off the high stool and made his way to the front of the classroom. Jon Farnish bowed to Master Theobald, who smiled and nodded. Master Theobald had taken a liking to Jon Farnish, who never failed to be immensely impressed whenever Master Theobald cast the most minor of spells.
Turning his back on Master Theobald, facing his classmates, Jon Farnish rolled his eyes, puffed out his cheeks, and pulled his mouth down at the comers, making a ludicrous caricature of his teacher. His classmates covered their mouths to hide their mirth or looked down hurriedly at their desks. One actually began to laugh, then tried to change it to a cough, with the result that he nearly choked himself.
The Soulforge Page 9
