Brother's Majere p-3

by Kevin Stein

  There were ten noble families of Mereklar, and each lived in a large, opulent estate whose great white spires could be seen rising high above the streets. The ten great families were the first negotiators and coordinators, supervising the fields of grain, orchards of fruit, and pastures for animals, making the city grow and thrive. They maintained their positions with wisdom and foresight, intelligence and flexibility.

  Each of the ten great homes had its own park, lush, green, filled with trees and flowers that remained in full bloom the year round. Small streams running through the city created ponds where members of the noble families would occasionally gather for parties or walk alone to relieve the romantic, melancholy needs of a somber heart. The houses themselves were four-storied and four-sided, as were almost all the houses in Mereklar.

  The city was prosperous and self-sufficient. Everyone living in Mereklar accepted the legends and prophecies found in ancient tomes left in unused libraries and engraved on the outer protecting walls. That cats would save the world, they had no doubt. All doors were left open. Small paws made hardly a sound as they went from home to home, receiving food and warmth and comfort. The cats were always loved, always revered. They congregated in the parks, sunning themselves lazily, or wandered the streets, rubbing against the legs of a passerby.

  Perhaps Lord Alfred Brunswick, Minister of Agriculture, was contemplating this very history of Mereklar, or perhaps he was pondering the absence of the cats. The servants wondered what he was doing, locked up alone in his study, all day and long into the night. His wife wondered as well.

  “I never see you anymore, dear,” she complained daily. “I know you’re worried about the cats, but there’s nothing you can do-”

  At this point in the conversation, Lord Brunswick always got up and left the room, returning to his study and locking the door.

  The study was a large, round room, filled with the books of the lord’s ancestors, each telling a different tale of Mereklar. In the center of the room stood a triangular table, as long on each side as a man is tall, surrounded by ten chairs-one for each of the ministers of Mereklar. On the table was a perfect model of the city, exact in every detail. Each tree was in place, every river and stream flowed in the proper direction, even the carvings on the outside walls were duplicated with unprecedented skill. Like the city, the model’s origins were a mystery. It had been here when the lord’s ancestors moved into the estate.

  Surrounding the model were the lands Lord Brunswick controlled-the lands of fruit and grain and corn. The servants had seen him studying at the model, determining when an orchard should be abandoned or expanded, a prairie burned or left to stand. His wife had watched him record notes in books and scrolls. That was before he had taken to locking the door to his study.

  “Dinnertime, my lord,” said one of the servants, knocking gently on the door.

  Each night, the Brunswick family sat around a white, glass-topped table, father and mother sitting at the far ends, the youngest children sitting to the right, and the two older daughters at the left. The meal always began with thanking the cats, protectors of the lands and world, for their kindness. These last few weeks, however, that custom had been abandoned.

  “No,” Lord Brunswick had said abruptly one evening when his wife had begun to recite the words. “Cats will not be mentioned in this house again.”

  His wife and children knew, of course, why he was upset. Their cats had been among the first to disappear. And so the Brunswicks said nothing of cats, but talked of other things at dinner. Matters that were not likely to worry Lord Brunswick.

  “How were things in the Council today, dear?” his wife asked, dishing up the soup.

  “The usual,” Lord Brunswick replied shortly.

  “Daddy,” his eldest daughter began, “you know that the Festival of the Eye is in two weeks.”

  Lord Brunswick glanced at his daughter sharply but said nothing.

  The girl drew a breath, gathering her courage. “When may I buy my new dress for the ball, Papa?”

  “You’re not going,” said the minister.

  “Oh, but you said I might! Only a month before, didn’t he, Mama?” the daughter cried.

  “Yes, dear. You promised,” said Lady Brunswick, looking at her husband strangely. “Don’t you remember?”

  “Did I?” said Lord Brunswick vaguely. Suddenly he snapped, “Festival of the Eye! I don’t have time for such foolishness.”

  Lady Brunswick shook her head. To her tearful daughter, she said quietly, “We’ll discuss this later.”

  The dinner proceeded in silence. After dessert, the girls excused themselves from the table, going back up to their rooms.

  “What’s the matter, my dear?” Lady Brunswick turned to her husband, her face lined with concern. “You always enjoy the Festival of the Eye. Surely, even with these dreadful problems, you can relax and participate in it. After all, it occurs only once a year.”

  “Why must you always bother me with trivial matters?” the lord exploded.

  His wife gazed at him, shocked. “In twenty years of our marriage, you’ve never raised your voice to me,” she cried, her eyes filling with tears.

  “I’m going to take a walk for some peace and quiet!”

  Night had fallen. This was the same night, in an inn a short distance from the city, that a kender argued with a strange, black-skinned man; a mage gasped for breath; and a warrior shared a bottle of dwarven spirits with an innkeeper. The minister left his estate through the back doors of his house and began to walk his gardens, strolling with his left arm held stiffly behind his back, in the manner of a proper gentleman. The few cats left in Mereklar, who had wandered into the yard, scattered at his approach.

  Glancing behind to see that he was not being followed, Lord Brunswick continued walking until he reached the edge of his land. Here stood a tall ceramic urn, one of many that lined the Brunswick property. The lord leaned against it casually. Waiting a few moments to assure himself that he was alone, the minister pushed slightly with his shoulder. The urn slid aside, revealing a hidden passageway into the ground.

  Searching the area one last time, the minister stepped down onto the stairway, which began to glow with a strange, eerie light. Reaching out, he tugged on a lever that jutted from the wall. The urn moved back over the entrance, concealing it.

  Lord Alvin, Minister of Property, finished his dinner at the same time as Lord Brunswick. Compared to the opulent meal the Minister of Agriculture had eaten, Lord Alvin’s fare was simple, served on stone crockery in the kitchen of his home. He ate alone, preparing his food himself, without the aid of servants. The lord lived alone on his huge estate, hiring only a groundskeeper to maintain the gardens and trees. Lord Alvin was a misanthrope, a miser.

  Going back to his study, Lord Alvin sat down stiffly in his chair. He glanced without interest over a book-a list of lands and their owners. When the chimes on his waterclock struck for the eighth time, he rose to his feet and made his way to the cellar beneath his house.

  The wine cellar was a large room, storing hundreds of bottles of spirits, each vintage held in its own separate storage rack. Wine had been stored here for years, growing more and more valuable each day.

  The lord walked down the flight of wooden stairs. Taking an oil lamp from its holder, he lit it with a match and continued on to the very back of the cellar. The minister moved heedlessly through the maze of racks, not caring that he jarred them. When a bottle fell to the floor and smashed, he didn’t even glance around.

  Far in the back, where the oldest bottles were stored, Lord Alvin came to a particularly ancient-looking rack. Running his fingers along the top, the minister reached out and pulled on a red bottle. The rack moved back with a subdued grinding sound, sliding into the wall. The lord stepped inside a tunnel that opened up behind the rack, his footsteps echoing hollowly in chill corridors.

  That night, throughout the white-walled city of Mereklar, seven other noble lords were walking seven other da
rk and different paths, all leading to the same place.

  Chapter 6

  The local patrons of the Inn of the Black Cat stayed up far into the night, discussing the ominous portent of their missing cats, unwilling to let their fears take control of their dreams. Eventually, however, sleep overpowered them and they left for their homes. Only one man remained in the eating hall.

  He’d been there all night, sitting alone, holding the same drink he had ordered at the beginning of the evening. No one spoke to him, he spoke to no one. Finally, Yost approached him.

  “I’m closing up now. Either rent a room for the night, or leave.”

  The man rose to his feet. “You lock the front door, do you? No one can go out … or come in?”

  “Not without waking me, they can’t,” Yost snorted. “Think I’d let people just stroll in or out without making certain they’d paid?”

  The man nodded and laid down a steel piece, more than enough for what he had not drunk. He unhitched his plain brown horse from a post at the rear of the inn, and rode off into the quiet night.

  He traveled swiftly through the fields and lands, avoiding hedgerows and muddy streams. The horse’s harness brought music with every motion of the animal’s long powerful legs, each stretch and toss of its head. Moving at a steady gallop, horse and rider traveled north.

  Mereklar slept quietly under the brilliance of the two moons. Solinari’s light rained down, showering the towers with silver, brightening the dimmest corners with heavenly light. Lunitari’s glow spread over the city like a blanket, peaceful and content, throwing red shadows limned with shimmering silver.

  The rider galloped up to the town gates and showed the guards an emblem he carried in his hand. Gold flashed in the moonlight. The guards let him pass. Without stopping, the man raced on to his destination.

  On a small hill in the very center of the city stood a house unlike any other house in Mereklar. A rectangular shape, the house had a steepled roof, with two turrets rising from the front and back, and was built from yellow-brown stone instead of the pure white stone of Mereklar. Dark wood, weathered from wind and rain, held up the walls. Vines and ivy reached up to grasp the roof. Stained glass windows, shining with myriad colors, were lit from inside, creating strange, shifting patterns that seemed alive.

  The rider dismounted and lashed his horse to one of the many trees that surrounded the strange house. He hurried up a path made of crushed white stones that shifted under his feet. Reaching the massive oaken door, apparently cut from a single living tree, he extended his hand to touch the doorknob-a piece of metal forged in the shape of a menacing cat.

  The man withdrew his hand quickly. The iron of the handle was cold with the chill night air. Reaching out again, grasping the knob with a steady hand, he pushed slightly. The door did not open. Looking around the house for some sign of life, craning his neck to peer into the colored windows, the rider tried again. This time, the door opened easily at his touch. He had heard nothing. He drew his hand back, fear creeping up his spine.

  Walking inside, the rider glanced around uneasily, listening again for any sign of life. There seemed to be none, yet someone-or something-had opened the door. He walked to the far end of the wood-paneled foyer and entered the main waiting room. A plush chair should have been warm, soft, and comforting. But when he sat in it, he felt unwanted, an intruder. He sighed pensively, crossing his legs and looking around nervously, uncertain when his hostess would arrive, uncertain if there was someone else in the dark, expansive home with him.

  The only sounds he heard were his heart beating in time with an unseen clock-its water dripping down at regular, measured intervals-and the sighing of the wind through an open window. He had the eerie impression that the house was alive with blood and breath. The man started to get up and pace the floor, but changed his mind at the last moment. It was as if he feared disturbing the house.

  He couldn’t gauge the number of minutes that passed. Time seemed to have lost all meaning. The man was beginning to get angry. He’d been told to hasten. At the far end of the room was another door, a duplicate to the one the rider had first entered. He grasped the handle and twisted it down, hearing the latch click loudly in the silence of the house.

  The door opened into another room, similar in size to the first, lit by a solitary fireplace at the far end. Looking in, he could dimly see bookcases filled with hundreds of books, hinting at the knowledge of ages past. Suits of armor reflected with steel-tinted light, each holding a weapon-a two-handed sword, a halberd, a pike.

  “What news do you bring?” a rich voice asked in a tone sensual and feminine.

  The man almost jumped back out of the doorway, his hand going to the dagger he kept in his belt. Squinting, he could see the lone robed figure of a woman sitting near him at the end of the table. A black cowl edged in white was thrown over her head. He could have sworn she had not been there when he opened the door.

  “The three came to the Inn of the Black Cat, my lady,” the man replied in a low voice. “They discovered the prophecies and asked questions. They asked the way to Mereklar.”

  The woman was silent a moment, thoughtful, brooding. “When will they arrive?” she asked at last.

  “Tomorrow, my lady.” The man discovered that he was still clutching his knife.

  “You have done well,” the woman said, ending the conversation.

  He bowed respectfully. Closing the door as quietly as possible so as not to disturb his hostess, the man walked swiftly and thankfully out of the house. Mounting his nervous horse, he rode away into the city, eager to return to the comfort of his own home, where the rooms did not abhor his presence.

  The lady in the black cowl had lived in the house atop the only hill in Mereklar all of her life. She felt comfortable in its rooms and hallways, the lights from outside creating patterns through the stained glass as mysterious as the lights shining from within.

  After her agent had left, she rose gracefully in a single, fluid motion from her chair and walked confidently through the darkness of the study to a door in the east wall. The unseen waterclock that still ticked away the hours was the only sound in the house. The lady made no noise as she glided through a door into a side hall. Here she came to another door, set at the end of the corridor. She entered an arboretum, moved along a narrow path to the huge glass door facing the outside, then left the garden, closing the door behind her. The cowl of her robes was pulled low, hiding her face from the faces of the moons.

  With sure and steady strides in the moonlit darkness, she quickly traversed one of the gardens surrounding her home. Coming to an old tree, dead and brown and pitted, she pushed away bramble with her foot, revealing an entrance leading into the ground-a passage devoid of light. She walked with even steps into the darkness.

  Traveling untold distances, finding her way through mazes, paths, and passageways that went in all directions, she finally reached her destination-a cavern of stone flattened at the end opposite the entrance. Torches flickered in sconces, a stage for dancing shadows. In the center of the hall stood a rounded semicircle of stone holding a slab of rock so large it would require hundreds of men to move it. Standing around this altar were nine people, each wearing robes of state and service.

  “You are late, Shavas,” Lord Alvin said as he turned to face the entrance.

  “Yes,” said the woman in the doorway, stepping into the room, torchlight shadows staining her gown.

  The ministers looked at each other, then at the woman.

  “What news do you bring us?” asked another when it was obvious the woman was not going to offer an excuse.

  The lord who spoke was a short man, stoop-shouldered, a gold medallion shaped like a sunburst weighing down his thin frame. He was dressed in a dark blue coat lined with gold-braided trim. Gold buttons ran down the front of his shirt, partially hidden by a dark blue vest.

  “The three men are coming to the city’s aid.”

  “And they will solve the mystery of t
he disappearing cats?” the short man asked again.

  “They will try,” corrected Shavas, the hood of her robes still hiding her face.

  “We don’t want panic,” remarked a stern-faced, gray-haired woman. “We’re close to that now.”

  “There’s no choice,” Lord Alvin spoke shortly. “You must hire these men, Shavas.”

  “I concur,” said Lord Brunswick.

  The consenting murmurs of the others filled the room, their united voices muffled in the underground cavern.

  “What you mean is that you want me to do what is needed to repair your blunder,” Shavas said. She flashed them a scornful glance, turned, and walked from the room. Her right hand gripped tightly a large fire opal she wore around her neck, holding onto it as if she were holding onto her very life.

  That same night, someone else at the inn noticed the rider’s hasty departure with interest. A black shape, almost invisible in the darkness, bounded down the same path the rider had taken. Moonlight glinted red in its eyes.

  Chapter 7

  Caramon awoke the next morning with a pounding in his head that his metal-working friend, Flint Fireforge, would have envied. The steady hammer blows, falling with excruciating regularity, made him wince with pain. The delicate sounds of chirping birds were like the clash of spears, and the shuffling noises of the other patrons at the inn created a wave of agony.

  Slowly drawing the sheets back from his head, exposing only his sleep-matted hair and bloodshot, half-closed eyes, the fighter glanced around the room, wincing again as a shaft of light struck him full in the face.

  “A cruel blow!” he muttered.

  Quickly pulling the sheets back over his head, Caramon lifted the bedspread from the side-avoiding another bright onslaught-and peered across the room to his brother. Still asleep, Raistlin appeared to be in pain-his back was arched slightly, his hands were curled into claws. But he breathed easily. Caramon sighed in relief.