Brother's Majere p-3

by Kevin Stein

  The warrior glanced over to Earwig’s bed, hoping that the kender-with his shrill voice-was also still asleep. He was, if the steady rise and fall of his blankets was any indication.

  “Good,” said Caramon to himself. “I’ll go downstairs and use my tried-and-true remedy for overindulgence.”

  The warrior eased himself out of bed, his head bent against the morning’s light.

  “Good morning, Caramon!” Earwig shrilled cheerfully, his voice piercing Caramon’s skull. The warrior fell over the bed as if toppled by a mighty blow.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so miserable. Thinking of Flint reminded him of one of the old dwarf’s many sayings, “A fighter’s greatest enemy is himself.” He had never understood what that meant until now. He wondered, too, if Flint had been referring to that terrible stuff-dwarf spirits-that had been the warrior’s downfall.

  “Earwig,” Caramon began, speaking softly through clenched teeth, his hands slowly clamping his head to ease the pressure. “If you don’t shut up, I’m going to have to kill you.”

  “What?” Earwig shouted, his voice just as loud as before. “What did you say? I couldn’t hear you. Would you repeat that, please?”

  In answer, Caramon grabbed a pillow with his left hand, walked over to the kender, and bagged Earwig’s head with the pillowcase.

  “Is this a game? What do I do now?” cried the kender, highly excited.

  “Just sit there,” growled Caramon, “till I tell you to move.”

  “All right. Say, this is fun.” Earwig, pillowcase over his head, composed himself to wait for whatever wonderful part of the game was going to come next.

  Caramon walked out of the room.

  Going to the well outside, he brought up a bucket of cold water and immersed his head in it. Sputtering, he shook himself like a dog, wiping his face on his shirt sleeves.

  Returning indoors, still rubbing himself dry, Caramon went into the eating hall, where breakfast was being served. The smell of eggs, bacon, and hot muffins helped ease the unrelenting pain in his head and reminded him that he hadn’t eaten since dinner last night-and that had been interrupted.

  It’s a good thing I never get sick when I drink, he thought to himself with pride.

  The room was practically empty. The few sullen patrons seated there glanced at the big man, scowled, and glanced away.

  Caramon ignored them. Going to the table he had occupied last night, he plopped his body down with such force that he almost fell over on the bench. Righting himself, the warrior sat very still until the queasiness left him.

  “Well, almost never,” he amended.

  “What can I get for you this morning?” It was Yost, the innkeeper, a slight smile stealing across his face.

  “A drink. Two-thirds grain, one part juice, one part cooking spice, and a green vegetable stalk, something absolutely tasteless. And plenty of pepper,” Caramon added.

  “Ah,” said Yost, “a seasoned warrior. The Old Fighter’s Favorite. And I bet you’ll be wanting some breakfast as well. Maggie!”-his yell caused Caramon to groan aloud-“bring something to eat for the gentleman here.”

  Caramon drank three Old Fighter’s Favorites, gulping the first two down quickly. The heavy taste of pepper drowned out the horrible taste of the brew. He stirred each one with a vegetable stalk absentmindedly as he poked at his food with a fork, unsure if he could stomach anything.

  By the fourth dose of cure, however, Caramon’s appetite came back. He ate slowly at first, building momentum. Eventually, he felt more like himself, and he sat back against the wall, leaning the bench backward, his shoulders propping him up. The other patrons had gone, the fighter was the only one in the tavern.

  Yost came over to stand by Caramon and glanced about with a gloomy air. “If this trouble doesn’t end soon, I’ll be ruined. The Festival of the Eye is coming up. A lot of people from Mereklar come to my inn to celebrate. But they won’t this year. Maggie, clear the table.”

  Maggie hustled over and began picking up plates and stacking them on a wooden tray. Caramon noted that she was an unusually pretty, red-cheeked girl with a buxom figure and straw-colored hair worn tied up with a yellow ribbon. He seemed to dimly recall that she had smiled at him last night.

  “Here, that’s too heavy for you,” he said, taking the tray from her.

  “Oh, no, sir. This is my job,” said Maggie, flushing deeply and trying to take the tray back.

  During the friendly wrestling match that ensued, Caramon managed to kiss a rosy cheek. Maggie slapped him playfully, and the tray filled with dishes nearly ended up on the floor.

  “Which way to the kitchen?” asked Caramon, who had emerged as the victor.

  “It’s over here, sir.” Blushing furiously, Maggie led the way. Caramon followed, carrying the tray, and a morose Yost brought up the rear.

  The kitchen was large and spotlessly clean. Numerous pots and pans hung from hooks nailed into the whitewashed walls.

  “Any more for breakfast?” asked the cook, a small, thin, dark-haired woman.

  “No,” said Yost gloomily.

  The cook began to make ready for the luncheon guests. Maggie motioned Caramon to one of the sinks. Quickly taking the plates from the tray he carried, she plunged them into the soapy water.

  “Well, Master Innkeeper,” Caramon began, talking to Yost but looking Maggie boldly in the eye, causing her to blush again and nearly drop a cup. “If it makes you feel better, my brother and I are going to Mereklar to try to earn that reward.”

  “Oh, are you, really?” Maggie turned, her motion sending a spray of bubbles over Caramon. “Lord! I’m sorry, sir!”

  Grabbing a towel, she tried to dry the warrior’s expansive chest. Caramon caught hold of her hand and held it fast. The girl’s eyes were brown, with long lashes. Her hair was the color of the leaves of the vallenwood trees in autumn. She didn’t even come up to his shoulder. Caramon’s heart beat fast. He bent down to steal another kiss, but Maggie-with a sidelong glance at her employer-pulled away and began to wash dishes at a furious pace.

  Yost nodded. “I figured as much. That mage asking all those questions. He really your brother?”

  “My twin brother,” said Caramon proudly. “He took the Test in the Tower of High Sorcery when he was only twenty. The youngest ever. And he passed. Though it cost him … cost both of us,” the warrior added, but only to himself, beneath his breath.

  Maggie heard, however, and gave him a warm and sympathetic glance. “He’s real sick, your brother,” she said in a soft voice.

  “Yeah. I worry about him a lot. But,” Caramon spoke hastily, seeing Yost’s face grow longer, “he’s stronger than he seems. If anyone can solve this mystery of yours about the cats, Raistlin can. He got all the brains, you see, and I got the muscle,” the big man said cheerfully.

  “Why would you bother with us?” Yost asked, staring at Caramon suspiciously.

  “We’re low on funds. We can use the job. Though, of course, more personal reasons have come up.” He winked at Maggie, who smiled demurely.

  “And what, if I may ask,” Yost continued, “would a mage want with money? I thought they could conjure it out of thin air or something.”

  “They don’t do that. It’s just a myth, like touching a frog and getting warts,” Caramon said loftily, showing off his vast knowledge of magic.

  “Toad,” the cook corrected quietly under her breath, without looking up from her work, sifting flour into a large bowl.

  Caramon glanced at her in astonishment.

  “You get warts from a toad,” she repeated. “And we don’t need any magic-users around here.”

  “There’s never been one,” agreed Yost, “and we’ve got along fine so far. It seems odd, you know.” His voice hardened. “Our cats disappearing and your brother coming into town about the same time.”

  “From what I’ve heard, your cats began disappearing weeks ago. My brother and I weren’t anywhere near-” Caramon began hotly.r />
  “There was a wizard lived here once,” Maggie interposed quickly. “Remember, Yost? That crazy old hermit who had a cave in the mountains?”

  “Oh, him,” said the innkeeper, remembering, “I’d almost forgotten about him. He never bothered us. Word was that he died, scared to death by spooks or something like that.”

  “Nobody knows for sure,” added the cook ominously, concentrating on her pie crusts.

  “Well, it doesn’t matter.” Yost frowned, dismissed the subject. “I was just wondering why a wizard would want to help us, that’s all.”

  “My brother has his own reasons,” Caramon said curtly. “He’s done a lot of things just to help others, like expose that phoney cleric at Larnish.”

  “Larnish!” the cook exclaimed. She dropped a bag of flour on the table in front of her, sending a small, spectral cloud of white into the air.

  “You’ve heard of it?” Caramon asked.

  “I had people there,” the cook answered.

  The warrior waited, but she said nothing more.

  “Well, I say it bodes no good! Mages! Huh!” muttered Yost, and walked out of the kitchen.

  “Here, I can dry those for you,” said Caramon, grabbing a dishtowel and sidling up beside Maggie.

  “Oh, no, sir! This is woman’s work! Besides, you might break-”

  Maggie stopped, noting that Caramon was drying the plates swiftly, deftly.

  “My mother was sick a lot,” said Caramon quietly, by way of explanation. “My brother and I got used to fending for ourselves. Raist always washed and I dried. It was fun. We enjoyed it. We used to talk …” His voice died as the warrior remembered happier times.

  But Maggie was smiling at him, a smile that lit the room more brightly than the sun shining through the window.

  Returning to his room, Caramon found Raistlin and Earwig finishing breakfast.

  “I don’t think much of that game, Caramon,” said Earwig severely.

  “Huh?” The big warrior looked blank.

  “Never mind,” snapped Raistlin. “Where’ve you been?”

  “Oh, just visiting. Finding out a few things. Can I help you pack, Raistlin?” Caramon walked over to his brother, who was poking his fork at a small piece of bread and assorted pieces of fruit.

  “I’m already packed.” Raistlin seemed unusually distant, withdrawn. His face had a gray tinge, and there were dark circles beneath his eyes.

  “Bad night?” asked Caramon.

  “The dream again,” Raistlin answered briefly. He looked away from his brother to stare out the window.

  “I’m packed, too!” Earwig stuffed a huge piece of a corncake into his mouth. Syrup dripped down his chin and back onto the plate in front of him. Still chewing, he gulped milk from a mug.

  “Earwig, go outside,” ordered Caramon.

  “I’m not done!”

  “You’re done. Raist, I think I should-”

  “That is an excellent suggestion. Wait outside with him, my brother.”

  “But-”

  “Go!” the mage commanded, thin hands clenching into fists. He stared out the window.

  “Sure, Raist. We’ll wait for you downstairs. Come when you’re ready.”

  Caramon grabbed his pack and his brother’s and left the room. Taking a last gulp from his mug, Earwig followed.

  Raistlin heard the door close behind them. The sun, warm and encouraging, shone through the window, causing the mage’s skin to glow with an inner golden light that seemed healthy in comparison with the sickly tinge it had acquired the night before. He reached over and touched the Staff of Magius with his hand, finding comfort in the feel of the wood.

  “Why can’t I remember? And why am I maddened by a half-dream I can’t recall? It was important. Something important-”

  “Excuse me, sir,” came a timid voice, taut with fear.

  Raistlin turned swiftly. He had not heard the door open. “What do you want?” he asked dourly, seeing a thin, dark-haired woman standing in the doorway.

  The woman blanched at his harsh tone, but, gathering her courage, she took a trembling step forward into the room.

  “Pardon, sir, but I was talking to your brother, and he said you was the one brought about the downfall of the cleric of Larnish?”

  The mage’s eyes narrowed. Was this some religious fanatic, about to berate him? “He was a fraud and a charlatan. A third-rate illusionist,” Raistlin whispered. Turning to face the woman, he pulled back his hood.

  The woman saw hourglass eyes sunken into golden skin, reflecting in the morning light. The sight was alarming, but she held her ground.

  “He stole money from innocent people in the name of his false gods,” Raistlin continued. “He ruined countless lives. Yes, I was responsible for his downfall. I repeat again, woman, what do you want of me?”

  “I’ve … I’ve just come to thank ye, and give ye this,” the cook said. She crept nearer the mage, holding something in her hand. “My boy, sir. He was one of them that was took in. He’s back home with me now, sir, and doing well.”

  The woman dropped her gift in the mage’s lap.

  “It’s a good-fortune charm,” the woman said shyly.

  Raistlin lifted it. The amulet sparkled and glimmered, shining and glittering as it spun slowly on its chain. It was ancient, the jewels in it valuable. He recognized it as a treasured possession, one that could have been sold to ease poverty, but was kept in remembrance of loved ones long dead.

  “I must get back to my work now,” said the cook, backing up. “I just wanted to tha-”

  Raistlin reached out a skeletal hand and took hold of the woman’s arm. She cringed, shrinking backward.

  “Thank you, mistress,” he said softly. “This is a wondrous charm you have given me. I shall cherish it always.”

  The woman’s thin face brightened with pleasure. Bending down, she timidly kissed his hand, shuddering slightly at the feel of the too-warm skin. The mage let loose of her arm, and she fled out the door.

  Alone again, Raistlin tried to recapture the dream, but it wouldn’t be caught. Sighing, he stuffed the charm into one of his pouches, and-leaning on the staff-pulled himself to his feet. He took one final look out the window and saw, shimmering along the grass, the strange white line leading north, leading to Mereklar.

  Raistlin walked outside the inn. The staff’s golden claw shone in the sunlight, the pale blue orb it held seemed to absorb the dawn, transforming the light into its own.

  “Where’s Caramon?” the mage asked Earwig, who was sitting hunched over on the packs.

  “He told me to stay here and wait for him, but it’s getting awfully boring. Can’t we go now?”

  “Where-” began Raistlin again.

  “Oh, he went around the side of the building about a minute ago.” The kender pointed.

  Raistlin looked at the packs that had obviously been rifled and wondered just how much of their possessions had made their way into Earwig’s pouches. Caramon was such a fool sometimes.

  The mage, face set into grim lines, stalked around to the back of the inn. He found his brother and one of the barmaids embracing, the warrior’s huge body enfolding the girl’s smaller one.

  Raistlin stared silently. A slight breeze barely moved his robes, the only motion around his body. No breath could be heard, no sound passed from his lips. Emotions surged from a well he knew must be sealed forever if he was to achieve true power. He stood and watched, his chest burning, though a coolness was already rushing from within to extinguish the heat. Even with great effort of will, there was something that made him stand and watch until he could bear no more.

  “Come, Caramon! We don’t have time for another one of your little conquests!” Raistlin hissed.

  He enjoyed watching them both jump, enjoyed seeing the girl flush red with shame, his brother red with embarrassment.

  The mage turned around, digging the staff deep into the ground, and walked back to the front of the inn.

  “I’ve got
to go now,” Caramon said, swallowing his passion.

  “Sure,” Maggie whispered, brushing her disheveled hair from her face. “Here. I want you to have this.” She thrust something into the bosom of his shirt. “Just a charm. To remember me and to bring you good luck in your journeying.”

  “I’ll never forget you!” Caramon vowed, as he had vowed a hundred times before to a hundred women before, each time meaning it with all his heart and soul.

  “Oh, get along with you!” said Maggie, giving him a playful shove. Sighing, she sank back against a tree, her eyes half-closed, watching the warrior run after the mage.

  The companions started on their way, walking for a time in silence-the mage working off his ire, the warrior letting his twin cool down. Earwig, mercifully, had dashed up ahead “to check things out.”

  The road was empty, though there was evidence that a horse had galloped over it not many hours before. Its hooves had dug deep into the damp earth.

  Raistlin studied the horse’s hoofprints and wondered what urgency had driven a rider to press his animal so. There could be any number of reasons, but the mage felt suddenly, intuitively, that it had something to do with them. An uneasiness was growing in Raistlin. He had the distinct impression that, instead of walking toward Mereklar, they should be hastening away from it. He came to a stop.

  “Caramon. What is that?” Raistlin pointed with the staff toward a spot in the mudddy road.

  Caramon came back to look. “That track?” The warrior knelt down, brow furrowed in concentration. “I’m not sure, Raist,” he said, rising to his feet, his face carefully expressionless. “I’m not a very good tracker. You’d have to get one of those Que-shu barbarians-”

  “Caramon, what kind of animal made that track?”

  The warrior looked uncomfortable. “Well, if I had to say-”

  “You do.”

  “I guess … a cat.”

  “A cat?” Raistlin’s eyes narrowed.

  “A … big … cat.” Caramon gulped.

  “Thank you, my brother.” Raistlin continued walking.