By afternoon, everyone in Solace knew that Rosamun Majere had fallen into one of her trances. She had fallen deep this time, so deep that she could hear no voice—however loved—that called to her.
The neighbors came, offering condolences and suggestions to aid in her recovery, some of which—the use of spirits of hartshorn, for instance, which she was to inhale—Raistlin tried. Others, such as jabbing her repeatedly with a pin, he did not.
At least not at first. Not before the terrible fear set in.
The neighbors brought food to tempt her appetite, for the word spread among their friends that Rosamun would not eat. Otik himself brought an immense basket of delicacies from the Inn of the Last Home, including a steaming pot of his famous spiced potatoes, Otik being firm in the belief that no living being and very few of the unliving could hold out long against that wonderful garlic-scented aroma.
Caramon took the food with a wan smile and a quiet thank you. He did not let Otik into the house but stood blocking the door with his big body.
“Is she any better?” Otik asked, craning to see over Caramon’s shoulder.
Otik was a good man, one of the best in Solace. He would have given away his beloved inn if he had thought that would have helped the sick woman. But he did enjoy gossip, and Gilon’s tragic death and his wife’s strange illness were the talk of the common room.
Caramon finally managed to close the door. He stood listening a moment to Otik’s heavy footsteps tromping across the boardwalk, heard him stop to talk to several of the ladies of the town. Caramon heard his mother’s name mentioned frequently. Sighing, he took the food into the kitchen and stacked it up with all the rest of the provisions.
He ladled spiced potatoes into a bowl, added a tempting slab of ham fresh baked in cider, and poured a glass of elven wine. He intended to take them to his mother, but he paused on the threshold of her bedroom.
Caramon loved his mother. A good son was supposed to love his mother, and Caramon had been as good a son as he knew how to be. He was not close to his mother. He felt closer to Kitiara, who had done more to raise both him and Raistlin than had Rosamun. Caramon pitied his mother with all his heart. He was extremely sad and worried for her, but he had to steel himself to enter that room as he imagined he would one day have to steel himself to enter battle.
The sickroom was dark and hot, the air fetid and unpleasant to breathe and to smell. Rosamun lay on her back on the bed, staring up at nothing. Yet she saw something, apparently, for her eyes moved and changed expression. Sometimes the eyes were wide, the pupils dilated, as if what she saw terrified her. At these times, her breathing grew rapid and shallow. At other times, she was calm. Sometimes she would even smile, a ghastly smile that was heartbreaking to see.
She never spoke, at least that they could understand. She made sounds, but these were guttural, incoherent. She never closed her eyes. She never slept. Nothing roused her or caused her to look away from whatever visions she saw, visions that held her enthralled.
Her bodily functions continued. Raistlin cleaned up after her, bathed her. It had been three days since Gilon’s burial, and Raistlin had not left his mother’s side. He slept on a pallet on the floor, waking at the least sound she made. He talked to her constantly, telling her funny stories about the pranks the boys played at school, telling her about his own hopes and dreams, telling her about his herb garden and the plants he grew there.
He forced her to take liquid by dipping a cloth in water, then holding it to her lips and squeezing it into her mouth, only a trickle at a time lest she choke on it. He had tried feeding her, too, but she had been unable to swallow the food, and he had been forced to give this up. He handled her gently, with infinite tenderness and unflagging patience.
Caramon stood in the doorway, watching the two of them. Raistlin sat beside his mother’s bed, brushing out her long hair and reciting to her stories of her own girlhood in Palanthas.
You think you know my brother, Caramon said, talking silently to a line of faces. You, Master Theobald, and you, Jon Farnish, and you, Sturm Brightblade, and all the rest of you. You call him “Sly” and “Sneak.” You say he’s cold and calculating and unfeeling. You think you know him. I know him. Caramon’s eyes filled with tears. I know him. I’m the only one.
He waited another moment until he could see again, wiping his eyes and his nose on the sleeve of his shirt, slopping the wine over himself in the process. This done, he drew in a last, deep breath of fresh air and then entered the dark and dismal sickroom.
“I brought some food, Raist,” said Caramon.
Raistlin glanced at his brother, then turned back to Rosamun. “She won’t eat it.”
“I … uh … meant it for you, Raist. You got to eat something. You’ll get sick if you don’t,” Caramon added, seeing his brother’s head start to move in negation. “And if you get sick, what will I do? I’m not a very good nurse, Raist.”
Raistlin looked up at his brother. “You don’t give yourself enough credit, my brother. I remember times when I was ill. You would make shadow pictures on the wall for me. Rabbits …” His voice died away.
Caramon’s throat closed, choked by tears. He blinked them away quickly and held out the plate. “C’mon, Raist. Eat. Just a little. It’s Otik’s potatoes.”
“His panacea for all the ills of the world,” Raistlin said, his mouth twisting. “Very well.”
He replaced the brush on a small nightstand. Taking the plate, he ate some of the potatoes and nibbled a little on the ham. Caramon watched anxiously. His face fell in disappointment when Raistlin handed back the plate, still more than half filled with food.
“Is that all you want? Are you sure? Can I get you something else? We’ve got lots.”
Raistlin shook his head.
Rosamun made a sound, a pitiful murmur. Raistlin moved swiftly to attend her, bending over her, talking to her soothingly, helping her to lie more comfortably. He moistened her lips with water, chaffed the thin hands.
“Is … is she any better?” Caramon asked helplessly.
He could tell at a glance she wasn’t. But he hoped he might be wrong. Besides, he felt the need to say something, to hear his own voice. He didn’t like it when the house was so strangely quiet. He didn’t like being cooped up in this dark, unhappy room. He wondered how his brother could stand it.
“No,” Raistlin said. “If anything, she is worse.” He paused a moment, and when he spoke next, his voice was hushed, awed. “It’s as if she’s running down a road, Caramon, running away from me. I follow after her, I call to her to stop, but she doesn’t hear me. She doesn’t pay any attention to me. She is running very fast, Caramon.…”
Raistlin stopped talking, turned away. He pretended to busy himself with the blankets.
“Take that plate back to the kitchen,” he ordered, his voice harsh. “It will draw mice.”
“I’ll … I’ll take the plate back to the kitchen,” Caramon mumbled and hurried off.
Once in the kitchen, he flung the plate toward what he assumed was the table; he couldn’t see very well for the blur in his eyes. Someone knocked on the door, but he ignored it, and after a while whoever it was went away. Caramon leaned against the fireplace, gulping in deep breaths, blinking very hard and fast, willing himself not to cry anymore.
Regaining his composure, he returned to the sickroom. He had news that would, he hoped, bring a small amount of cheer to his twin.
He found Raistlin seated once more by the bed. Rosamun lay in the same position, her staring eyes sunken in her head. Her wasted hands lay limp on the counterpane. Her wrist bones seemed unnaturally large. Her flesh seemed to be slipping away with her spirit. She appeared to have deteriorated in just the few moments Caramon was gone. He shifted his gaze hurriedly away from her, kept it focused on his twin.
“Otik was here,” Caramon said unnecessarily. for his brother had surely deduced this from the arrival of the potatoes. “He said that the Widow Judith left Solace this morning.”
“Did she,” Raistlin said, a statement, not a question. He looked around. A flicker of flame lit his red-rimmed eyes. “Where did she go?”
“Back to Haven.” Caramon managed a grin. “She’s gone to report us to Belzor. She left claiming he was going to come here and make us sorry we were ever born.”
An unfortunate choice of phrase. Raistlin winced and looked quickly at their mother. Caramon took two swift steps, laid his hand on his brother’s shoulder, gripped it hard.
“You can’t think that, Raist!” he admonished. “You can’t think that this is your fault!”
“Isn’t it?” Raistlin returned bitterly. “If it hadn’t been for me, Judith would have let mother alone. That woman came because of me, Caramon. I was the one she was after. Mother asked me to quit my magic once. I wondered why she should say such a thing. It was Judith, hounding her. If I had only known at the—”
“What would you have done, Raistlin?” Caramon interrupted. He crouched down beside his brother’s chair, looked up at him earnestly. “What would you have done? Quit your school? Given up the magic? Would you have done that?”
Raistlin sat silent a moment, his hands absently plucking the folds of his worn shirt. “No,” he said finally. “But I would have talked to mother. I would have explained to her.”
He glanced at his mother. Reaching out, he took hold of the pitifully thin hand, squeezed it, not very gently, willing to see some response, even a grimace of pain.
He could have crushed that hand in his hand, crushed it like an empty eggshell, and Rosamun would have never so much as blinked. Sighing, he looked back at Caramon.
“It wouldn’t have made any difference, would it, my brother?” Raistlin asked softly.
“None in the world,” Caramon said. “None at all.”
Raistlin released his mother’s hand. The marks of his fingers were red on her pallid flesh. He took hold of his brother’s hand and held it tightly. They sat together in silence for long moments, finding comfort in each other, then Raistlin looked quizzically at his brother.
“You are wise, Caramon. Did you know that?”
Caramon laughed, a great guffaw that broke like thunder in the dark room, alarmed him. He clapped his hand over his mouth, flushed red.
“No, I’m not, Raist,” he said in a smothered whisper. “You know me. Stupid as a gully dwarf. Everyone says so. You got all the brains. But that’s all right. You need them. I don’t. Not so long as we’re together.”
Raistlin abruptly released his grip. He drew his hand away and averted his face. “There is a difference between wisdom and intelligence, my brother.” His voice was cold. “A person may have one without the other. Why don’t you go for a walk? Or go back to work for your farmer?”
“But, Raist—”
“It’s not necessary for both of us to remain here. I can manage.”
Caramon rose slowly to his feet. “Raist, I don’t—”
“Please, Caramon!” Raistlin said. “If you must know the truth, you fidget and fuss, and that drives me to distraction. You will feel better for the fresh air and exercise, and I will be better for the solitude.”
“Sure, Raist,” Caramon said. “If that’s what you want. I’ll … I guess I’ll go see Sturm. His mother came to call and brought some fresh-baked bread. I’ll just go and say thank you.”
“You do that,” Raistlin said dryly.
Caramon never knew what brought on these sudden dark and bitter moods, never knew what he’d said or done that quenched the light in his brother as surely as if he’d doused him with cold water. He waited a moment to see if his brother might relent, say something more, ask him to stay and keep him company. But Raistlin was dipping a bit of cloth into a pitcher of water. He held the cloth to Rosamun’s lips.
“You must drink a little of this, Mother,” he said softly.
Caramon sighed, turned, and left.
A day later, Rosamun was dead.
4
THE TWINS BURIED THEIR MOTHER IN THE GRAVE NEXT TO THEIR father. Only a few people stood with them at the burial. The day was wet and chill, with a touch of early autumn in the air. Rain poured down steadily, soaking to the skin those who gathered around the grave. The rain drummed on the wooden coffin, formed a small pool in the grave. The vallenwood sprig they planted drooped, sad and forlorn, half-drowned.
Raistlin stood bareheaded in the rain, though Caramon had several times anxiously urged him to cover his head with the hood of his cloak. Raistlin did not hear his brother’s pleas. He heard nothing but the fall of the drops on the wooden coffin, a small coffin, almost that of a child. Rosamun had shrunk to skin and bones in those last terrible days. It was as if whatever she was seeing held her fast in its claws, gnawed her flesh, fed off her, devoured her.
Raistlin knew he himself was going to fall ill. He recognized the symptoms. The fever already burned in his blood. He was alternately sweating and shivering. His muscles ached. He wanted so much to sleep, but every time he tried, he heard his mother’s voice calling to him, and he would be instantly awake.
Awake to the silence, the dreadful silence.
He wanted to cry at the burial, but he did not. He forced the tears back down his throat. It wasn’t that he was ashamed of them. He did not know for certain for whom he wept—for his dead mother or for himself.
He was not aware of the ceremony, was not aware of the passage of time. He might have been standing on the edge of that grave all his life. He knew it was over only when Caramon plucked at his sleeve. At that, it wasn’t Caramon who convinced his twin to leave but the sound of the dirt clods striking the coffin, a hollow sound that sent a shudder through Raistlin.
He took a step, stumbled, and nearly fell into the grave. Caramon caught him, steadied him.
“Raist! You’re burning up!” Caramon exclaimed in concern.
“Did you hear her, Caramon?” Raistlin asked anxiously, peering down at the coffin. “Did you hear her calling for me?”
Caramon put his arm around his twin. “We have to get you home,” he said firmly.
“We must hurry!” Raistlin gasped, shoving aside his brother’s hand. He seemed intent on leaping into the grave. “She’s calling me.”
But he couldn’t walk properly. Something was wrong with the ground. It rolled like the back of a leviathan, rolled and pitched him off.
He was sinking, sinking into the grave. The dirt was falling on him, and still he could hear her voice.…
Raistlin collapsed, fell to the ground at the graveside. His eyes closed. He lay unmoving in the mud and fallen leaves. Caramon bent over him. “Raist!” he called, giving him a little shake.
His twin did not respond. Caramon glanced around. He was alone with his brother, except for the gravedigger, who was shoveling as rapidly as he could to get in out of the wet. The other mourners had left as soon as decently possible, heading for the warmth of their homes or the crackling fire in the Inn of the Last Home. They had spoken their final condolences hurriedly, not really knowing what to say. No one had known Rosamun very well, no one had liked her.
There was no one to help Caramon, no one to advise him. He was on his own. He bent down, prepared to lift his brother in his arms and carry him home.
A pair of shining black boots and the hem of a brown cloak came into his view.
“Hello, Caramon.”
He looked up, thrust back his hood to see better. The rain poured down, streamed from his hair into his eyes.
A woman stood in front of him. A woman around twenty years of age, maybe older. She was attractive, though not beautiful. Her hair, beneath her hood, was black and curled damply around her face. Her eyes were dark and bright, perhaps a little too bright, shining with a diamond’s hardness. She wore brown leather armor, molded to fit over her curvaceous figure, a green loose-fitting blouse, green woolen hose, and the shining black boots that came to her knees. A sword hung from her hip.
She seemed familiar. Caramon knew he knew her, but he didn�
�t have time to sort through the lumberyard that was his memory. He mumbled something about having to help his brother, but the woman was now down beside him, kneeling over Raistlin.
“He’s my brother, too, you know,” she said, and her mouth twisted in a crooked smile. “Kit!” Caramon gasped, recognizing her at last. “What are you—Where did you—How did—”
“Here, we better get him somewhere warm and dry,” Kitiara interrupted, taking charge of the situation, much to Caramon’s relief.
She was strong, as strong as a man. Between the two of them, they lifted Raistlin to his feet. He roused briefly, stared around with unfocused eyes, muttered something. His eyes rolled back, his head lolled. He lost consciousness again.
“He’s … he’s never been this sick!” Caramon said, his fear something real and alive inside him, squeezing his heart. “I’ve never seen him this bad!”
“Bah! I’ve seen worse,” said Kitiara confidently. “Lots worse. I’ve treated worse, too. Arrow wounds in the gut, legs cut off. Don’t worry,” she added, her smile softening in sympathy for Caramon’s anguish. “I fought Death before over my baby brother and I won. I can do it again if need be.”
They carried Raistlin up the long flight of stairs to the boardwalk, made their way beneath the dripping tree branches to the Majeres’ small house. Once inside, Caramon built up the fire. Kit stripped off Raistlin’s wet clothes with swift, unblushing efficiency. When Caramon ventured a mild, embarrassed protest, Kitiara laughed.
“What’s the matter, baby brother? Afraid this will shock my delicate feminine sensibilities? Don’t worry,” she added with a grin and a wink, “I’ve seen men naked before.”
His face extremely red, Caramon helped his sister lay Raistlin down in his bed. He was shivering so that it seemed he might fall out. He spoke, but he made no sense and would occasionally cry out and stare at them with wide, fever dilated eyes. Kit rummaged through the house, found every blanket, and piled them over him. She placed her hand on his neck to feel his pulse beat, pursed her lips in a thoughtful frown, and shook her head. Caramon stood by, watching anxiously.
The Soulforge Page 14
