Brother's Majere

Chapter 9

Caramon watched over Raistlin throughout the night, never moving from the mage’s side, never taking his eyes from the steadily rising and falling rhythm of his brother’s breathing. The fighter had witnessed Raistlin this sick only once before, when they were being pursued in a forest by the Cleric of Larnish’s men. The mage had expended most of his energies fending off spear and arrow, creating a glowing shield that could not be penetrated by missiles, protecting the twins from attack until eventually they found safety in a hidden cave.

Caramon had gone out to cover their tracks from the pursuers, and when he came back, he saw his brother, leaning against a wall, head bent at an odd angle, eyes rolled back so that only the whites showed. A few moments later, however, Raistlin had recovered and acted as if nothing had happened. But Caramon knew that his brother had exhausted himself beyond even the endurance of his indomitable will.

This night, however, Raistlin was not recovering, though Caramon was sure he had acted in time, forcing the vapors of the herbs into the mage’s lungs.

“Something’s going on that I don’t understand,” the warrior muttered.

Looking at the still figure on the bed, Caramon gently brushed the long, white hair away from the mage’s face, revealing a mask of metal that gave no clue to the thoughts and feelings behind it. Raistlin was still wrapped in his red robes, a crimson shroud that concealed the weakness of his body.

Caramon, sitting in a large, plush chair near the bed, allowed himself a moment to close his eyes and stretch his huge frame. He was tired, but he had no intention of falling asleep while his twin was in the grip of this strange malady.

Oil lamps hung in each of the four corners of the room, suspended from the ceiling on silver wires, creating steady illumination that covered everything in a white-yellow glow. Moving to the lamps, Caramon blew them out one by one until the room was dark.

Turning from the last, Caramon caught his breath as he looked back to the mage. Raistlin’s body was covered in a faint blue glow, an aura that moved and flickered and danced around the gold of the magician’s skin. Arcs of lightning cracked between and around the fingers of his hands.

“Raist!” Caramon whispered in awe. “What’s going on? Please, tell me! I’ve never seen anything like this before! I’m frightened! Raist! Please!”

But his brother couldn’t answer.

“It’s not real. It’s a trick of my eyes because I’m sleepy.” Caramon rubbed his eyes, but the glow remained.

Hurrying to the bed, the fighter imagined he saw the nimbus growing brighter at his approach. He reached out with an unsteady hand and touched Raistlin’s arm. The lines around the mage’s hands extended toward him, as if groping out blindly to feel another’s presence.

Caramon quickly backed away, unwilling to commune with the power that surrounded the sorcerer’s body.

“Well, I can do one of two things,” said Earwig to himself, standing in the middle of the empty street. “I can go back to Raistlin and tell him I lost his staff.…”

The kender paused to consider this course of action. Raistlin would not be pleased. And while he would undoubtedly do something very interesting to the kender, Earwig wasn’t certain that he really wanted to live the rest of his life as a slug.

“Or,” said Earwig, “I could go out and find the staff and bring it to him and he’d be eternally grateful.”

That sounded much better. Earwig returned to the inn, intending to collect his pouches and his hoopak from where he’d left them when he went to get the staff. However, one of the servants had been posted at the ruined front door to guard against unwelcome intruders. He immediately stopped the kender.

“But I’m with Caramon and Raistlin Majere! I’m Earwig Lockpicker!” said the kender importantly.

“Yes, he’s one of them,” the proprietor concurred, hastening back down the stairs. “Councillor Shavas says to make them all welcome and provide them with every comfort. But,” he said, shaking a finger at the kender, “you’re to stay in your room and not go wandering about the town! Come on. This way!”

And before the startled kender could protest, the proprietor had hustled him up the stairs, into a room, and shut and locked the door behind him.

“Well!” said Earwig, and sat down to consider the matter. “It’s nice of them to be concerned about my rest, but they don’t know that I have a very important mission to perform. I don’t want to hurt their feelings, though, after all the trouble they’ve gone to, so I’ll just wait until they’re in bed and then slip out.”

When the proprietor’s footsteps had died away and everything was quiet, Earwig walked to the door. Leaning his hoopak against the doorframe, the kender removed a leather case the size of a human’s hand. Inside was an assortment of wood-handled tools, each adorned with a metal tip bent at strange angles or cut into unusual shapes. Running his fingers caressingly over each, Earwig pulled out an instrument with a V-shaped end and inserted it into the lock. Working for a few minutes, slowly and unhurriedly, the kender heard a click come from within the mechanism. The door swung open.

“Cheap lock. They should get it replaced. I’ll tell them in the morning.”

Creeping out into the hall, he glanced around to see if anybody had awakened.

Nobody had.

Earwig replaced the tool in its pouch, and replaced the pouch back into his bags. He was about to proceed down the stairs when he remembered the large and unfriendly servant sitting at the front door.

“He’s probably fallen asleep. I won’t disturb him,” said the thoughtful kender as he turned and went the opposite direction.

A locked window didn’t even require the use of his tools, much to Earwig’s disappointment. Climbing out, he crawled down a trellis and landed on the street behind the inn.

Barnstoke Hall stood in the middle of a long block of houses and shops on Southgate Street, one of the three main roads, each several miles in length, that apparently led from the gates to the center of Mereklar. The building was very long, paneled with light-colored wood on the floor and walls, though the ceiling was left uncovered, revealing the white foundation used for every building in the city.

The lights of Mereklar lit the street brightly, whatever magic they used for fuel apparently inexhaustible. Earwig stared up at one of the magical lights, hovering far above his short reach. He thought about using the rope he had at his waist to ensnare one of the miniature suns, but decided to wait until later. Right now he had a very important mission-finding Raistlin’s staff. The kender turned to the right, then stopped, looking behind him, craning his head. Changing his mind, he turned to the left, but suddenly looked behind him again.

“Mmmm,” Earwig murmured. “Which way should I go? Let me think. If I were a wizard’s staff, where would I be?”

The kender tried to imagine himself a staff, but found that distinctly unhelpful. Reaching behind into his backpack, Earwig withdrew a velvet pouch that rattled with a hollow sound. He opened the drawstrings, revealing a multitude of game pieces: glass dice, ivory chessmen, colored sticks-anything used for chance, fortune, or skill. Jamming his hand into the bag, the kender fished around inside for a while, spilling dice and knights everywhere. Eventually, he pulled out a small, square board, about a fingerspan to a side, with a metal arrow pinioned through the center. Leaving the dropped pieces on the street, Earwig sat down on the ground and set the spinner on the white stone road in front of him.

“Now let’s see which way the staff went,” he said, the index finger of his right hand going to the spinner.

Taking a deep breath, Earwig gave the spinner a whirl. The arrow stopped, pointing straight back into Barnstoke Hall.

“Pooh! You’ve made a mistake. It can’t be in there!”

Earwig spun again, only to have the arrow point back at the inn.

“Are you broken?”

The kender gave the needle a wrench, bending it. Putting the spinner back on the ground, he flicked the arrow another time with his finger. It pointed directly into the heart of the city.

“What a coincidence. That’s just where I wanted to go!” Earwig said happily, stuffing the spinner into one of the pockets in his scruffy, baggy trousers. He started walking north up Southgate Street, his hoopak in his hand.

Raistlin thrashed in his bed. His back arched, his face contorted horribly, a mask of gold found only in theatrical grotesques. His mouth opened wide to scream, but the agony ripped his body. He could utter no sound, the air stolen from his chest.

Lightning engulfed the mage, covering him with sheets of blue and white that threatened to sear his flesh. Caramon, standing as near to his brother as possible, was forced to shield his eyes against the brilliant glow. Love for his brother overcame his fear. He edged nearer and nearer to the bed, moving inches at a time.

Caramon could no longer look at his twin. The light had grown so intense that it penetrated his eyelids, causing him to see flashes and phantoms, yellow images that floated across his vision. But still he moved forward, determined to give what help he could. Reaching out, he caught hold of Raistlin’s hand.

The pain started at the front of Caramon’s body, licked around his sides, and scored his back with harsh, blue-lightning claws. Every nerve was aflame, burning so that his flesh lost all sensation, numbed beyond feeling. Shafts of fire speared his lungs and stung his heart till he thought it would burst from the strain.

He lost his balance and fell to one knee, but he held fast to his brother’s stiff hand.

And then, suddenly, the blinding light was gone. Caramon was plunged into darkness. He felt Raistlin’s hand close firmly over his.

“It is over, my brother,” the mage said, his breath coming quick and labored.

Earwig walked for hours, taking in the sights of Mereklar and remembering, occasionally, to search for the staff. He had never been in a city that was so quiet. Nobody else was in the streets. Not a sound could be heard, not even the calls of cats he had so eagerly expected. Earwig felt as if the city belonged to him-a vast, enclosed town whose magical lights burned brightly for him, the only wanderer.

He paused, looking around, finding himself at another intersection.

“Which way should I go this time?” he said aloud, then snapped his mouth shut quickly. He hadn’t meant to disturb the silence.

A cat appeared, glanced at him tentatively, then darted off into the night. After a few moments, more cats ran into the middle of the road.

“Hi!” Earwig said, starting forward, but the cats scattered in all directions. The kender watched them with fascination.

“Wow! And to think there used to be thousands of cats around here! I wonder where these were going? I’ll find out.”

Shrugging and digging deep in his pocket, Earwig brought out the spinner again, flicking it with his finger. The arrow pointed backward, toward the inn.

“Stupid thing!” the kender muttered, placing the game piece back in his pocket.

He turned in the direction opposite the one the spinner had indicated-an alley that sloped slightly downward, a narrow corridor without light.

“That looks interesting. If I were a staff or a cat, I think I’d definitely be down there.”

The kender walked into the alley. He started to whistle a favorite marching tune, but stopped, thinking better of it. After all, he didn’t want to disturb anybody who might be asleep.

The walls of the passage looked gray and rough, the normally white, near-sparkling stone hidden from the light. Earwig had the feeling that there was something different about this place, but he couldn’t decide what it was.

Noise. That was it. This part of the city was awake!

The kender heard the sounds of people singing and laughing. His sharp eyes could now detect the red of a fire’s glow somewhere to the left of an open square-an area he could not see clearly yet.

Earwig reached the end of the alley and looked around in amazement, stopping so suddenly that he almost fell over. He had entered an arcade filled with small storefronts and shops. His gaze darted from place to place, each dark and deserted store calling him to come forward, to come inside and see what it had to offer.

One shop was filled with brightly colored gems and jewelry that gleamed in the moonlight. Another sold cloth, dyed with beautiful patterns, and another offered weapons. Earwig danced forward into the middle of the marketplace, wondering where he should look first.

The sound of a scream and shatters of pottery made Earwig jump and glance around. He saw the source of the red glow-firelight streamed out the window of an inn. He heard another scream, coming from the same place.

“This is one fight I won’t miss!” cried the kender in excitement, and peered inside a dirty window to see what the commotion was about.

Twenty men were seated at tables and booths in the room. They were all dressed in black armor of a type that looked familiar to the kender, though he couldn’t recall why. Flagons of ale and beer sloshed over onto the floor as they talked, their voices muffled by the window. Barmaids walked between the patrons, nimbly avoiding groping hands.

The bartender, a large, unpleasant-looking man, cleaned glasses with a dirty towel behind the bar. Earwig could see that every one of the men carried weapons-knives and swords, some sheathed, others laid across tables, exposed and ready for trouble.

Standing higher on his toes, Earwig saw one of the barmaids, a girl of about twenty with dark, straight hair and attractive features, bend down to pick up a broken mug. One of the men, dressed in better clothes than the rest, hit her with the flat of his sword. He sent her stumbling into the window frame, causing the other men in the room to howl with laughter. Struggling to stand, the barmaid looked out the window. She and the curious kender made eye contact. The woman fell backward, a look of surprise on her face. Earwig continued watching with interest.

The barmaid walked warily up to the man who had hit her. “I think you’ve had enough, my lord. You better go back to your home.”

“I’ll have another!” was the slurred reply. “You can’t throw me out!”

“Catherine,” called the bartender, glowering. “Go wake the stableboy. Send him for Councillor Shavas.”

At the sound of the name, the man appeared to reconsider. Grumbling, he pushed a chair back noisily and headed for the door, his steps unsteady. The wooden door banged open. Scratching his stomach with his right hand and the back of his neck with his left, the man looked around the alley and saw Earwig.

A street light shone full on the kender. The man, staring at Earwig’s neck, lurched forward.

“Where’d you get that?” he demanded hoarsely, staggering down the short flight of stairs that led from the inn. “Itsh mine!”

Earwig, startled, put his hand to the cat’s-skull necklace and frowned. He didn’t like this man.

“You drunken sot!” the kender taunted, getting a firm grip on his hoopak. “I wouldn’t tell you if it were day or night. I wouldn’t tell you if your pants were unlaced, which, by the way, they are. I wouldn’t-”

The man reached down, caught hold of the kender by the shirt, and pulled a dagger from his own belt.

“I kill your kind, vermin!”

“What with? Your stinking breath?”

Using all his strength, Earwig brought his hoopak up between the man’s legs, striking him in the groin. The man doubled over in pain, clutching himself. The hoopak fell a second time, this time on the man’s head, knocking him unconscious.

“Oh, dear, now you’ve done it!” said a voice.

Earwig saw the barmaid standing in the doorway. She sounded worried, but he saw that she was trying hard not to laugh.

“You better go!” she said softly, hurrying down the stairs. “He’s an important man in this town. There might be trouble.”

“You mean from those guys in there? I can handle them!” said Earwig stoutly.

“No, not them. Just go, quickly. And … thank you,” she whispered in a rich voice, soft and pleasant. Leaning over, she kissed the kender swiftly on the cheek. Then, hearing shouts inside, she waved at him and hurried back up the stairs, closing the door behind her.

Earwig stood in the alley, his hand pressed against his cheek, a look of rapture on his face.

“Wow! No wonder Caramon likes kissing girls. That’s even more fun than picking a lock!”

Caramon stood over his brother, staring at him anxiously. “Are you sure you’re all right? What happened, Raist? What was that?”

“I don’t know,” the mage said weakly. “I’m not certain. Be silent, Caramon. Let me think.”

For some reason, his mind was pulling him back to their childhood. Raistlin had the vague feeling that something like this had happened to him before. Long ago.

He recalled brightly colored clothes and music and eating too many sweets … cookies … He seemed to smell fresh-baked cookies …

The Festival of the Eye!

Raistlin sat up quickly, causing his head to grow light and his sight dim. He fell over sideways on the bed, closing his eyes, reaching for the staff as he often did when weakness came upon him. When he touched the black wood, a huge sphere of lightning appeared, surrounding his arm, lighting the room with blue flame.

Caramon cried out in alarm, but the room grew dark again as the last vestiges of magic expended itself, released and channeled into the labyrinths of power within the staff.

Raistlin sat up. A bitter smile twisted his lips as he recalled his youth-a time when he was a target for contempt.

The Festival of the Eye. Once a year, the children were allowed to pretend they were adults. He’d worn the robes of a wizard, crudely sewn by the impatient and clumsy hands of his older half-sister, Kitiara. She had outfitted Caramon as a warrior, complete with wooden shield and sword, then took the twins from door to door, begging for the special cookies that were made in honor of that night. It had been the brothers’ last festival together with their sister. Kit had left them soon after, to make her own way in the world.

That night, when they were returning home to gloat over their treasures in private, Raistlin had suddenly become ill, pain clenching his stomach and sides. His brother and half-sister had been forced to carry him. When he spat to remove a bitter taste in his mouth, a small gout of blue flame had shot out. He could still recall the looks of alarm he’d seen on the faces of his siblings.

The next morning, Raistlin was fine. The sickness had never occurred again, and neither the brothers nor their sister had ever told anyone else what had happened.

Raistlin thought that now he was beginning to understand.

“Hand me my pack,” he ordered his brother.

Mystified, Caramon obeyed.

The mage rummaged in it. Pulling out a small book, he flipped through the pages. Caramon, peering over his brother’s shoulder, saw nothing but rows and columns of numbers printed on the yellowing pages. Phases and positions of the moons were also indicated.

Some of the dates had large circles around some of the numbers, when pictures of the two moons created a single dot on the page. Raistlin continued to leaf through the book, stopping when he reached the middle. Opening the book wide, making the binding crack in complaint, he laid it down on the bed in front of him. After a moment of silent calculation, he closed it and tossed it into his pack.

“What?” asked Caramon.

“The Festival of the Eye,” said Raistlin. “Remember? A long time ago, when we were little?”

Caramon’s eyes crinkled in thought. Suddenly, his mouth sagged. “I’ll be damned,” he murmured, staring at his brother. “What does it mean? It’s just a holiday, that’s all.”

“To most of you, it is,” Raistlin said, somewhat bitterly. “It’s a time to dress up and break the routine of dull existence. But to us, to wizards, it is much, much more.”

“Yeah, I remember,” said Caramon. “You’re supposed to offer your services free.”

“Bah! That’s the least of it!” Raistlin snarled impatiently. “It is, in reality, a time of great magical power. It began untold ages ago when three sorcerers of tremendous and unparalleled skill gave their lives to their crafts, ending their existence in one final, ultimate expenditure that drained their souls. They used the energy to create a force infinitely more potent than any one could ever summon on his own.”

Caramon shifted uncomfortably, as he often did when his twin discussed his arcane craft.

“Certain mystical texts stated that the wizards were each dedicated to one of the three alignments,” Raistlin continued. “Good, neutral, and evil-the incantations required all three members from the Great Balance of the World. Some of the books say that the wizards cast the spell to gamble on the future for their deities, hoping that their particular alignment would wrest control of the power when the time came.” Raistlin shrugged. “The sorcerers chose the game, but the gods cast the dice. The wizards died, the energy remained pent up. The texts say that the energy will be released only when the Great Eye is in the heavens.”

“The Great Eye?”

“Don’t interrupt me, if you want to know what’s going on. This year’s Festival of the Eye is going to be different from most others because all three moons, including the black moon Nuitari, are moving to rare conjunction. They will form the Great Eye-an orb of red, silver, and black hovering in the night sky, looking down upon Krynn with unfathomable intent.”

Raistlin paused, gazing at his brother with his own golden hourglass eyes.

“This has occurred once before in the history of the world-during the Cataclysm.”

Caramon shook his head. “Look, the Festival of the Eye happens every year. You’ve never been sick before. Except that once.”

“And on that night of the Festival-the night I was so strangely ill-my books showed the convergence of the two visible moons-Lunitari and Solinari. That is something that occurs more frequently, but still not often. Now, this year, according to my reading, that convergence will happen again. My calculations further confirm that the third-the black moon of the ancient, forgotten goddess Takhisis, Queen of Darkness-will cross over them, forming the Great Eye. What I felt so many years ago was the early gathering of mystic power that is going to be freed during the upcoming festival. Much is explained,” he added, thinking of the white line, understanding now why he could see it.

“Maybe to you, but not to me,” Caramon grunted, yawning. He glanced at his brother uneasily. “Is this sickness likely to happen again?”

But Raistlin was lost in thought and didn’t answer.

Earwig walked back up Southgate Street, past the rows and blocks of houses. “Everyone sure likes this necklace,” he said to himself proudly. “I’m really glad I found it. Gosh, I’m tired, though. Being a great warrior and getting kissed by beautiful women really takes a lot out of a guy.”

The kender made his way back to Barnstoke Hall, where he was delighted to find the street littered with dice and game pieces. He picked them all up and stuffed them into his pants pockets, wondering where they had come from.

The large and unfriendly servant was still guarding the door to the inn. The kender kindly let the man rest and went around to the back of the inn, where he crawled up the trellis and climbed into a window.

“I’ll just stop by and tell Caramon about my adventure,” he said, going up to the twins’ door and knocking on it loudly.

A bleary-eyed Caramon threw open the door. “You!” He glowered at the kender. “Do you know what time it is?”

“No,” said Earwig cheerfully. “But I can find out if you want. There’s a clock in the hall. I-” The kender’s mouth flew open. He stared.

“Raistlin’s staff!”

“Yeah, so what?”

“But it was … I mean I tried to … It just disa-!”

“See you in the morning, Earwig!” growled Caramon as he slammed the door, nearly taking off the kender’s inquisitive nose.

“How wonderful! It must have come back all by itself! Still,” Earwig added, miffed, “you’d think it would have said something before it let me go to all that trouble looking for it.”

Yawning, he started to go to his room, but couldn’t remember where it was. He sneaked down into the dark dining hall, undid his pack, rolled out his sleeping mats, and fell asleep under the main table.