Brother's Majere

Chapter 8

It was night when they reached Mereklar. The city’s white walls glowed eerily in the silver moonlight. The bas-reliefs on the walls- raised patterns of the history of Krynn expanded into huge shapes, actors forever frozen- threw strange, shifting shadows over the surrounding grounds.

Earwig was fascinated. He’d never, in all his travels, seen anything so marvelous. He loved stories, and this was like having every one he’d ever heard come real before his eyes. The kender ran his hands along the walls, walking slowly, gazing in wonder.

“There’s Huma and the Silver Dragon,” he said, pointing to the hero and his tragic love, each perfectly inscribed, every line, curve, and angle in exact proportions. “I don’t recognize that one, though. Or that one either. That guy’s a wizard, isn’t he, Raistlin? Like you. Why, he is you! Look, Raistlin, you’re fighting another wizard-a real, real old wizard. And that warrior there looks sort of like you, Caramon. The one in the arena, battling a minotaur. And”-Earwig’s mouth dropped-“I’ll swear that’s Cousin Tas! There! Talking to a five-headed dragon! Look, Raistlin, look!”

“Nonsense!”

The mage gasped for breath. He barely glanced at the walls. His strength was failing fast. It always did, with the coming of night. He had been leaning on his brother’s strong arm for the last few miles.

“Hurry up, Earwig!” snapped Caramon, anxious to get his brother to a place where he could rest.

“I’m coming,” murmured the kender, moving along slowly, feet dragging. “I wonder why these walls are blank.… I know! I’ll bet they’re waiting-waiting for great deeds of the future to be recorded on them. Maybe”-he heaved an ecstatic sigh-“maybe I’ll be up there someday!”

Each pass of his fingers over the slate sent thrilling chills down his arms and back. He could almost see himself, immortalized in stone, joining the rest of Krynn’s famous and heroic.

“Earwig!” Caramon called irritably.

The kender paused, glancing back at the wall. The wizard certainly did resemble Raistlin. But how could the mage be here and be bacl in the past at the same time? He’d have to remember to ask.

“Kender!” Caramon shouted in a voice that meant no nonsense. “Get up here now, or we’ll leave you behind!”

Earwig hurried to catch up. He might have a chance, in this wondrous city, to be a hero and have his picture on the wall. Imagining his adventures, he forgot all about asking Raistlin how he could be master of the past and the present.

“Wait a moment, Caramon!” Raistlin clutched his chest. “Let me … catch my breath.”

“Sure, Raist.”

Caramon stopped walking. Raistlin, gripping the staff to support himself, stood before the city walls. He wasn’t coughing, however. Looking closer, the fighter saw that his brother was staring down at the ground, intently, concentrating. Raistlin’s face could not be seen behind the red cowl, hiding from the silver moonlight.

Caramon experienced a feeling he often had around his brother, the sense that nobody in the entire world could ever intrude upon the young mage’s thoughts, that no force in the world would ever shake Raistlin’s ambition. Caramon found himself wondering, with a feeling of uneasiness, just what Raistlin’s ambitions were.

Raistlin glanced up, turning to face his brother. Red moonlight filled the mage’s hood, making his gold skin blaze with fire-a brazier of inner strength, indomitable, unquenchable. The hourglass eyes were filled with crimson, unscarred by the silver of the other moon. Caramon gaped, wondering if the apparition before him was truly his twin.

Raistlin smiled slightly, seeing his brother’s obvious discomfort.

“Aren’t we going in?” Earwig was looking at them anxiously.

Caramon suddenly wanted to shout, “No!” turn around, and walk straight back to the inn. He knew with the intuitive sense that made the brothers nearer twins on the inside than they were on the outside that Raistlin believed great danger lay ahead of them.

Great danger, but also great reward.

“Come on! You were the ones who told me to hurry!” Earwig urged, his shrill voice sounding too loud in the night stillness.

“Magic,” Caramon muttered beneath his breath. “He’ll risk his life for the magic!” And mine, too, the warrior added in silence.

Raistlin held out his left arm, sweeping it toward the open gate that led into Mereklar. His right hand clutched the Staff of Magius near the top, a black line in red and silver moonlight.

“Shall we enter, my brother?”

The huge gate leading into Mereklar was easily large enough to fit five horses riding comfortably abreast, with three more standing on each others’ shoulders. It was raised and lowered by an unseen mechanism, hidden deep within the walls, out of sight. No chains or ropes were visible. Running grooves, one on either side, were used as guides to keep the barrier sliding smoothly. Though the city was old, the iron bars of the portcullis did not show any signs of age or wear. Metal plates, apparently for decorative use, embellished the bars. On each plate was inscribed the head of a cat.

The city wall was five feet thick, and perfectly smooth and unblemished. Even the slots cut into the sides of the portal and ceiling had no imperfections. Not the smallest chip scarred the surface of the stone near the grooves, where anyone who had ever seen a castle’s gate knew that rock began to disintegrate most quickly at those high stress points.

The companions walked inside the open gate. Caramon gazed at the city’s defenses with a soldier’s eye. Earwig stared with wonder at the incredible size of the gate and wall. Raistlin saw only the line of power, shimmering at his feet, extending into the city.

“Halt!” cried a voice. A soldier stepped out of a guardhouse, gesturing for five of his men to follow. They had been sitting out of sight, comfortably reclining in chairs in the cool evening air. Now they ran up to the party, holding their glaives in both hands, their bodies moving with exaggerated swings to the left and right, balancing with the weight of their heavy weapons.

The twins and the kender came to a standstill. Caramon stood with his arms folded across his chest, the hilt of his sword jutting up over his back, the main-gauche sitting at his hip. Raistlin leaned heavily on the staff, his back bent with fatigue. Earwig stepped forward, politely extending his small hand.

“Hi! I really love your walls!”

Caramon caught hold of him and pulled him back. “I’ll do the talking!”

The soldier who called for them to halt was a tall, thin man with large hands. Insignia on his simple blue uniform indicated that he was a sergeant.

“By law, we must question all strangers wanting to enter the city.”

“Certainly, we understand, Sarge,” Caramon said, smiling in a friendly manner.

“Your names?”

“Caramon Majere. Raistlin Majere,” Caramon said, gesturing to his twin with a hand. “And this”-patting the kender on the shoulder-“is Earwig.”

“Earwig. Surname?”

“Uh, just Earwig.”

“No, it’s not ‘just Earwig’!” said the kender indignantly, ignoring the warrior’s attempts to hush him. “My name is Earwig Lockpicker.”

Caramon groaned softly.

“Lockpicker?” The sergeant glowered. “And just what might that name mean, I wonder?”

“Well, if you’re interested, I’ll tell you,” offered Earwig brightly. “You see, when the kender first lived in Kendermore, my great-great-great-great-great-grandfather … I think. I mean, I know it was my grandfather, but I’m not sure if I put enough ‘greats’ in there. Maybe it was my great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather who-”

“It is simply a name, officer, and has no meaning outside of tribal identification,” Raistlin said, smoothly breaking into Earwig’s recitation of his family tree. “It’s quite common among kender.”

“Common? It’s not common-” cried Earwig, but Caramon managed to muffle the kender with a large hand over his mouth.

“You seem to know a lot about them, sir. Do you have many kender friends?” The sergeant turned suspicious eyes on the mage, who stood perfectly motionless behind his brother.

“Exactly two more than I’d like,” answered Raistlin dryly. He suddenly began to cough and nearly fell.

Caramon sprang forward to assist him. “Look,” said the big man angrily, “we’ve answered your questions, Sergeant. Now let us pass. Can’t you see that my brother’s ill?”

“I can see it. And I don’t like it. We hear that there’s plague beyond our walls,” said the sergeant, his frown deepening. “I think you three had better just go back to wherever it is you came from.”

“I do not have the plague.” Raistlin was breathing easier. He stood up straight. “And we are going into the city.” The mage slid his left hand into voluminous robes, gliding between the simple hooks that held it closed in the front.

“Even if we have to go through you,” added Caramon grimly, standing to one side of his brother and drawing his sword.

“Stop them!” yelled the sergeant.

The soldiers halfheartedly lowered their weapons, threatening the companions with the broad blades of their glaives. None actually moved to stop the mage. None wanted to get that close.

“Come on!” cried Earwig, swinging his hoopak in the air until it whistled. “We’ll take you all on!”

“Wait, Sergeant!” called a voice.

A man motioned from the shadows where he must have been standing the entire time. The sergeant, glancing at the companions balefully, walked over. The two conversed briefly, then the sergeant nodded. He returned, looking relieved, and the man melted back into the shadows.

“Please excuse my suspicion, gentlemen,” said the sergeant, bowing. “These are troubled times. You are welcome in our city.”

“We are?” said Caramon dubiously.

“Yes. Rooms have been arranged for you at Barnstoke Hall.”

“How did anyone know we would be com-” Caramon began, but fell silent when he felt his brother’s hand close over his arm.

The sergeant handed Caramon an ornate scrollcase.

“Here. This is for you.”

Caramon handed it to his twin, who hid it within his robes.

“Where might we find the home of Councillor Shavas?” inquired Raistlin.

“Councillor Shavas’s house is in the exact center of town. Follow any of the main roads. They all lead right to it. The lodging-house, Barnstoke Hall, is on this road, just a short distance away.”

Raistlin had begun to cough again. Caramon took his brother’s arm.

“Thank you, Sergeant. We’ll be going now,” the warrior said. They walked slowly up the street, leaving the guards to stare after them, shaking their heads and muttering in low voices.

Absorbed in discussing the arrival of a wizard, the guards never noticed a dark form scale the white walls of Mereklar. The figure, dressed all in black, used no ropes or tools of any kind, but climbed the wall with ease, finding foot- and hand-holds in the carvings. Gliding over the top of the wall, he dropped down lightly onto the street below, landing silently on all fours. Keeping to the shadows, he slinked past the guards and crept down the street, keeping the companions in his sight.

“How the devil did anyone in Mereklar know we were coming?” Caramon demanded when his brother could breathe again.

“The man standing in the shadows,” Raistlin whispered. “He was at the inn with us. Remember the horse’s hoofprints on the road?”

“Was he?” Caramon glanced around, pausing. “Maybe I should go back and-”

“No, you shouldn’t!” snapped Raistlin. “I’m growing weaker by the moment. Would you leave me to die in the gutter?”

“No, Raist. Of course not,” said Caramon patiently, helping his brother through the quiet streets.

Every building was constructed of the same white stone as the walls, every street was a perfect white slate, smooth and even. It seemed to have all been carved from a single mountain of rock.

“Flint would love this place,” muttered Caramon.

“Hey! Look at that!” Earwig cried, pointing.

Motes of light were swelling out of the ground like water bubbling up from moist soil. After a few moments, the lights began to rise into the air, hovering above the walks and streets, flooding them with a radiant glow that illuminated the way for late-night travelers.

The lights were wasted tonight, however. No one was about, a fact Caramon thought strange, considering that it was not yet late. He peered constantly down the shadowy alleys and glanced sharply into each dark doorway they passed. The sharp-eyed kender noticed the warrior’s nervousness.

“Do you think someone’s going to jump out at us, Caramon?” Earwig asked eagerly. “You owe me a fight, you know, since you let me sleep through the one in the-”

“Keep quiet, kender!” Raistlin snarled.

Caramon glanced around. “Raist,” he said in a low voice, for his brother’s ears alone, “someone tried to stop us from coming to Mereklar that night. Why haven’t they tried again?”

The mage nodded his head wearily. “A good question, my brother. Look at it this way. That night, no one knew we were coming to Mereklar except the assassin. We may assume, I believe, that someone saw you remove the sign from the post at the crossroads. If we had died that night-” The mage coughed, struggled to draw breath.

“If we had died that night,” he repeated, when he could talk, “no would have known or cared. But, when we reached the inn, we made no secret of our interest in this city. People knew we were coming. If anything had happened to us on the way, questions would have been asked. Curiosity aroused.”

“That’s true,” said Caramon, regarding his brother with admiration. “So you think we’re safe now?”

Raistlin looked down at the white line, shimmering at his feet. It was very bright. He could see it clearly. No need for wine in his eyes. “No, Caramon, I do not-”

Pain seized Raistlin. Agony ran through his body like fiery darts. The motes of light left the streets and came to dance in his vision. The mage doubled over, the pain twisting his body into grotesque forms, squeezing the breath from his lungs, cutting off even his bubbling cry of torment.

Raistlin collapsed, unconscious. The staff clattered to the street. Lifting his brother, who was like a rag puppet in the big man’s arms, the warrior looked frantically around for aid.

“There’s the inn!” cried Earwig. “But it’s all dark!”

“These people must go to bed at sunset! Go get help!” Caramon ordered.

Dashing down the road, the kender reached the door to Barnstoke Hall and began pounding on it.

“Help! Fire! Thieves! Man overboard!” he yelled, adding any other rousing alarm he thought suitable.

Lights flared. Heads poked out of upstairs windows.

“What is it?” demanded a man in a pointed nightcap, coming out on a second-floor balcony.

“Open up!” shouted Caramon.

“It’s past hours. I’m locked up for the night. Come back in the morning-”

Caramon’s lips pressed together grimly. Getting a firm grip on the limp and seemingly lifeless body of his brother, the warrior kicked the door to the lodging-house. Wood splintered, but the door held. Caramon kicked it again. There was a tearing and rending sound as the door shattered beneath the blow. The man on the balcony shrieked in anger and disappeared inside.

Caramon stalked through the wreckage. Looking around, he found a sofa and gently laid his brother down. The scrollcase that Raistlin had placed in the sleeve of his robes clattered to the floor. Caramon paid no attention to it. His brother’s face was pinched, the lips blue. Raistlin had ceased breathing.

“I’ll call the guard!” The innkeeper came clattering down the stairs, shaking his fist. “You’ll pay-”

Caramon glanced at him.

“Hot water! Quickly!” the warrior ordered.

The innkeeper swelled up with fury, then his gaze fell on the scrollcase. He turned pale.

“Well, what are you doing, standing around, you lout?” the proprietor shouted at a sleepy servant. “Didn’t you hear the gentleman? Fetch hot water! And be quick about it!”

The servant raced out and returned with a pot of boiling water, originally used for the evening tea.

Caramon poured steaming water into a cup and shook the contents of one of Raistlin’s pouches inside. The herbs and barks bubbled and snapped. Propping up his brother’s lifeless form, Caramon held the concoction to Raistlin’s lips. The fumes seeped into the mage’s nose and mouth. Raistlin’s breathing began again, though the mage remained unconscious.

Sighing heavily, wiping his sweaty forehead with the back of his right hand, Caramon gently lifted his brother.

“Your rooms are ready, sir,” said the proprietor, bobbing up and down. “This way. I’ll show you myself.”

“Sorry about the door” Caramon grunted.

“Oh, think nothing of it,” said the innkeeper airily, as if he replaced heavy wooden doors every day. “Will you be needing anything else? Food? Drink?”

The procession wound its way up the stairs. Earwig, forgotten in the excitement, started to follow, when he remembered something.

“Raistlin’s staff! He left it in the street. I’m certain he’d want me to go get it!”

Turning, the kender dashed back outside. There was the staff, lying in the middle of the road. Earwig gazed down at it in awe. The crystal orb, held fast in the dragon’s claw, was as dark and lifeless, it seemed, as its master.

“Maybe I can make it light up,” said the kender, reaching out a trembling hand to take hold of the staff. Of all the interesting things that had happened to him in his life, this was going to be the most wonderful. Carrying a wizard’s staff-

“Hey!” Earwig cried out angrily. “What the-?”

The kender looked up into the air and down at his feet. He glanced around in all directions.

The staff was gone.

“Oops,” said Earwig Lockpicker.