by Kevin Stein
“My hoopak!” he cried. Reaching out with his other hand, he found his pouches. Rummaging through his gear, he discovered that everything he could remember having was still there, including the tinderbox and a small torch. Soon, bright, yellow flame lit the room.
Earwig gazed around the cell. There were four more skeletons chained to the walls in addition to the one he had found. It looked as if they’d been there a while. But what really caught his attention were the walls themselves. They were covered with paintings and decorations, gold against black.
“More stories!” sighed Earwig, enraptured. He began to study them. “A long time ago,” he said, tracing the pattern with his finger, “the world was … whole … and everything was fine. Then, something happened, and there were wars. Then nothing happened and everyone thought they were happy, but they weren’t, really. Then came the Cataclysm!” he surmised, seeing what could only be pictures of a great mountain of fire falling from the sky. “Then what? We go back, and a guy in a red robe builds a great city of white stone. No, that doesn’t seem right. Let’s see, a guy in a black robe tricks the guy in the red robe into building the city of white stone. And then, the guy in the red robes builds the city and a guy in a white robes helps from behind.”
Earwig stood back, scratching his head in confusion. The first part of the story had been easy to follow, flowing in a vertical direction down the wall, but now everything he looked at branched out in hundreds of directions, over the ceiling, across the floor, along the walls, lines of gold connecting each to a large triangle. Following the lines, he came to a great, stylized eye done in colors of red and white and black, staring at him in the wall opposite the triangle. All the gold lines in the room met at this symbol.
“Not much of a story,” Earwig sniffed. “The plot goes absolutely nowhere.”
The kender put his pack on his back, adjusting it for comfort, shifting his shoulders against the weight. He started to walk out of the room when he realized that something essential to his plan of escape was missing.
“A door. There’s no door! How am I supposed to get out of here?” he demanded angrily. “Wait! Maybe they hid the door, just so I’d have to find it.”
Cheering up, Earwig started to tap his hoopak against the walls, the wooden staff making a loud sound in the quiet of the cell. He systematically worked around from one corner to the others. “Tack, tack tack, tack, tack. Tick! That’s it!”
He pushed with all his strength against the block, but couldn’t move it. “Maybe this isn’t it,” he concluded, leaning back against the wall to rest. “Wha-oh!” The stone swung on hidden hinges, dumping the startled but highly elated kender onto the floor on the other side.
“Wake up, Caramon!”
Thin fingers bit into the young man’s shoulders. He was up and moving in an instant. With the instinct of a warrior, his body was functioning before his brain.
“I’m here! I’m ready!” he shouted, hands fumbling for his weapons.
“Don’t be alarmed. Yet. Get dressed.”
Caramon stared around sleepily, and realized he was in his comfortable room in Barnstoke Hall rather than in a war camp that had come under the attack of hordes of goblins.
“Sure, Raist.” He’d only been asleep, he judged, for several hours. “Just give me a couple of minutes to wash up and shave and-”
Raistlin brought the metal-shod end of his staff to the floor with enough force to shake the lamps on the walls.
Caramon, startled, stared at his twin. Pain and outrage lined the golden face, flickering in the narrowed eyes. The warrior put his gear on quickly, as if he were about to engage in battle.
Raistlin, saying nothing, led the way from their room to the street. He seemed to have become a spirit of retribution overnight. What had happened? Caramon wondered.
The people they met walking on the avenue shied away, crossing over to the other sidewalk to avoid meeting the mage. The brothers entered a carriage. Raistlin commanded, “Westgate Street.” The driver nodded confirmation, snapping the reins.
The coach moved from along Southwall Street at a steady pace. Questions burned Caramon’s tongue, but he kept quiet. Raistlin had not looked at him directly since he’d wakened him. The mage stared intently into the shops along the roads, pointedly ignoring his twin.
Caramon, remembering with a rush of blood how he had spent the night, thought he knew the reason for his Brother’s ill-humor. Why’s he blaming me? the warrior demanded silently, feeling guilty and not liking it. He made his choice. He got what he wanted, and so did I.
The coach turned right onto Westgate Street, and Caramon saw his brother tense, both hands gripping the black staff until the skin over the knuckles turned white. The fighter could see nothing, could sense no element of danger, but he drew his dagger.
Raistlin saw his action and snorted in derision. “Put your knife away, Caramon. You are in no danger.”
“Are you in danger?” the warrior asked.
Raistlin glanced at his brother. Pain twisted the golden face, then the mage looked swiftly away. His hands gripped the Staff of Magius with such intensity that his fingers seemed likely to crack and bleed.
“Stop,” Raistlin commanded the driver.
The carriage rolled to a halt. The mage jumped out and began walking at a rapid pace down Westgate Street. Caramon followed his brother’s quick footsteps as best he could.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“To get a cup of hyava,” Raistlin replied, without turning.
Caramon stared at him in amazement. He was about to risk drawing down his brother’s wrath by asking another stupid question when he saw a sight that stole the words from his mouth. The street was suddenly infested with a huge wave of cats and in the middle of the tide, in front of a tavern, sat a single figure-a black-skinned man, dressed in black.
“Raist! That’s the man who-”
“Caramon, shut up,” said his twin.
At the brothers’ approach, the cats scattered, running up and over walls and down the street. Raistlin came to stand in front of the man. Caramon joined his brother, the warrior’s hand on the hilt of his sword.
“Please, join me,” the man in black said. His voice had a faint hissing quality to it that made Caramon shiver. He glanced at Raistlin, who nodded. The fighter pulled a chair out and sat. The mage did likewise.
Caramon stared at the man. He was incredibly handsome, with dark black hair that curled down the back of his neck. His eyes were blue, a startling contrast to his shining black skin, and they were slightly slanted. He stared at them intently, without blinking.
“My name is Bast,” he said suddenly. Jewels sewn onto his black clothing in a band around his neck glowed softly in the sunlight. “May I offer you a drink?”
Without waiting for a reply, Bast lifted his hand, motioning for a barmaid. “Please, Catherine. Two cups of hyava for my guests.” Catherine stared a moment, then spun on her heel and ran back into the restaurant. She came back almost immediately with two small cups.
“Thank you,” Caramon said. The girl mumbled something and backed away, but lingered near, watching.
Raistlin sat as still and motionless as the city, his mouth set in grim, dark lines.
“Yes. Questions,” the man in black said, staring at the mage with intense blue eyes.
“Who are you?” Raistlin asked.
“You know who I am.”
“Why have you been following us?”
“You know why.”
Raistlin flushed, growing angered. The man in black appeared amused. Caramon took a large gulp of his drink and burned the roof of his mouth. Apparently, his brother had finally met his match.
“Then what is your part in all this?” Raistlin demanded. “Why are you here?”
“You know why,” answered Bast, sharp white teeth flashing in a slow smile.
Caramon cringed, waiting for the outburst. His brother seemed to literally swell with suppressed rage and frustration
. The man in black watched him calmly, and the anger seeped from Raistlin like blood from a wound.
“Do I? How do I know what to believe?”
“Believe what you want. It makes little difference to me.”
“No, I don’t believe that!” Raistlin said softly. “If so, why are you here, meeting with me?”
“I came here not to prove myself to you, but to prove you to myself.”
The man in black, who called himself Bast, rose slowly and lazily to his feet. Stretching luxuriously, muscles rippling in his slender arms, he gave them a graceful nod of his head and moved off down the street.
“Do you want me to stop him?” Caramon half rose.
“No!” said his brother sharply, gripping the warrior’s wrist. “He’s a foe beyond your strength, beyond your comprehension. You would be dead within moments.”
Caramon sat back down, somewhat relieved. He felt the truth of his brother’s statement, though he couldn’t quite say why. The big warrior only knew that, for one of the few times in his life, he’d actually been afraid.
Raistlin was regarding his brother coldly, his eyes narrowing to thin lines. “One night with a woman makes you very bold this morning, brother. She must have been something … special.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” said Caramon quietly.
“Why not? You’ve never minded flaunting your conquests before!”
“Maybe I did, but that’s because I can still have those kind of feelings! I can know what it is to love someone!”
Caramon tossed his barbed words without aim, goaded into fighting by his brother’s bitter sarcasm. But when he saw them hit their target, he would have given his soul to take them back.
Raistlin’s shoulders jerked, as if pierced to the heart. The thin frame seemed to collapse in on itself. His head bent, his body trembled. He gathered his robes around him.
“I’m sorry, Raist-” Caramon began.
“No, Caramon.” His twin raised a feeble hand. “I am the one who should apologize. Your comments were most … perceptive.”
“What happened to you last night?” asked Caramon, with the intuitive knowledge of a twin.
The mage said nothing for a minute. He stared down into his hyava, watching the brew swirl in the cup. “I was nearly destroyed last night.”
“An ambush?” Caramon started to stand again. “It was that man, wasn’t it? That Bast fellow! I’ll-”
“No, my brother. It was a trap-a magical trap. It was set for me in one of the books.”
“Trap? Where? In Lady Shavas’s house?” Caramon stared, incredulous.
“Yes, in Lady Shavas’s house.”
“You think she set it, don’t you?” Caramon demanded, growing angry.
“I found three books of magic in her library, my brother, and one of them contained a rune-spiral that nearly captured my soul and dragged me into the Abyss! What would you think?”
“It was an accident. She couldn’t know she had something like that in her house!”
“How could she not know? Ah, I remember now. There are no magicians in Mereklar’ ” The mage mimicked the woman’s voice. “A perfect excuse.”
“You don’t suspect … You do think she did it on purpose!”
His twin’s silence spurred Caramon further.
“Why would she want to do that?” he yelled. “She’s the one who hired us! She defended us to the ministers!”
“Exactly. Why would she want me …?” Raistlin paused, eyes narrowing.
“Look, Raist!” said Caramon, breathing heavily, trying to control his anger. “You’re smarter than I am. I admit that. You seem to know a lot more about what’s going on here than I do. Someone tried to kill both of us in the woods. Then someone tried to kill me. Someone’s tried to trap you. Earwig’s disappeared. Now you come here on purpose to meet that man who’s been following us. How did you know he’d be here? Who is he? I think you should me tell what’s going on.”
Raistlin shook his head. “So much to do. And so little time. Tonight, Caramon. The Great Eye shines tonight. And I’m not ready.…” He sighed, then said, “If you must know, in one of the books, I saw a picture of that man standing in a place that looked familiar to me. I realized this morning that the place was here-Westgate Street.”
“You saw him in a book? What did it say about him?”
“That he was a creature of great evil. But, after meeting him, I’m no longer sure what to believe.”
“I know.” Caramon shuddered. “He’d just as soon rip out your heart as look at you.”
“Perhaps. But-”
“Excuse me, gentlemen.” It was the barmaid. Caramon vaguely remembered that her name was Catherine. “I couldn’t help overhearing you mention Earwig. Do you mean Earwig Lockpicker, the kender?”
“You’ve seen Earwig? Where is he?” Raistlin asked with interest.
“I don’t know. That’s what I’ve come to tell you. I think he’s been abducted.”
“Abducted?” Caramon snorted. “Who in his right mind would run off with a kender?”
“Well, we were talking in the tavern where I work, and I went into the back to get some ale, and when I returned, he was gone!” Catherine stared down at her shoes.
Raistlin’s shrewd eyes watched the girl from the shadows of his hood. “He probably just wandered off.”
“No, he didn’t.” Catherine began to twist and tug at her apron.
Raistlin eyed the girl speculatively, then suddenly the golden skinned hand shot out and grabbed hold of her wrist. “Where have they taken him?”
“Ouch!” Catherine gave a little scream and began to squirm. “Please, sir. I- You’re hurting me!”
“Where have they taken him?” Raistlin tightened his grip. The girl’s face grew deathly pale. She tried to pull away.
“Raist-” Caramon began.
“Come, come, girl!” Raistlin ignored his twin. “You were in on it, weren’t you? You lured him into the trap.”
Catherine snatched her arm away. “It was him who told me to do it.”
“Who?”
“That man. Bast. He said your friend was in danger, because he wore that strange necklace. He said he and his men would protect him. All I had to do was see to it that the kender went with them peacefully. Not make any trouble.” She twisted her apron into a knot. “I never meant any harm! I only wanted to help!”
Tears slid down her cheeks. Lifting her arm, she wiped it across her nose.
“Where did they take him?” Raistlin persisted.
“The … the dead wizard’s cave, I think.”
“Where is it?”
“In the mountains, a half day’s journey from here,” Catherine said, jerking her thumb in a southeasterly direction. “There’s an old path that leads there, marked by black flowers.”
“Black flowers!” Raistlin stared at her. “Don’t lie to me!”
“I’m not!” Catherine rubbed her hands across her eyes. “I’m sorry for what I did. He was nice to me. Just go and find him, will you?”
“Black flowers,” muttered the mage.
“What is it, Raist?”
“Black flowers have a certain meaning among us, my brother. They denote the spot of an evil wizard’s death.” Raistlin rose to his feet. “We must search for Earwig.”
“I didn’t think you cared that much about the kender,” said Caramon, pleased.
“Not him! The magic ring he’s wearing!” Raistlin began moving at a rapid pace down the street.
Caramon, shaking his head, was starting after his brother when he felt a gentle touch on his arm. He turned to see the girl. “Well, what is it now?” he asked gruffly. “Haven’t you done enough?”
Catherine flushed, her eyes lowered. “I just wanted you to … If you see Earwig, tell him”-she shrugged-“tell him that I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, sure!” muttered Caramon and stalked off.
Chapter 19
Earwig entered a long tunnel. The kender sighed.
It was the fifth tunnel he’d encountered in his escape, and he was beginning to get tired of them. Even the pictures on the walls, interlaced with the gold, black, and white lines-pictures that had formerly been so fascinating-were starting to lose their charm. His stomach growled.
“I’m hungry, too,” said Earwig, patting his belly sympathetically.
The little torch he held in his hand continued to burn with a soft, yellow glow, the amber at the end of the wood sputtering occasionally. Such torches were the favorite of kender, and no respectable adventurer left home without a few in his pack. Earwig had started with five, and though each would stay lit for a couple of hours, he had already used up one in his wanderings.
“This isn’t fun anymore!” he shouted. “I want out of here, and I want out of here right now. I mean it! No nonsense!”
The sound of his thin voice echoed in the walkways, but not for very long or very far or else the kender would have done little more than stand and yell, listening for his voice repeated hundreds of times against the ancient stones. He heard no answer, however, and was disappointed. He walked off to his right and stepped in a warm puddle of amber.
“I’ve been here before! I’m walking in circles.” He remembered then, what his great-grandfather had always told him. Whenever you’re in a boring situation, turn left and keep turning left. Earwig thought this good advice, and so he decided to follow it now.
He came to more tunnels, with more pictures filling the walls, more gold and black and white lines. The kender ignored them. He went through several more hallways and suddenly noticed that the pictures began to fade. The lines ran together to form a single, great band of gold, black, and white.
“I don’t blame you,” the kender told the unknown artist. “I was getting tired of that other stuff, too.”
Earwig stopped short, dropping his torch and clutching a wall to keep himself from falling forward. He had stumbled into a room-a dome underneath the ground. Set in the bare walls at regular intervals were burning torches whose light did not fully penetrate the gray fog drifting through the air.
“Well, at least this is different from tunnels!” said the kender, feeling cheered.
