Brother's Majere

Prologue

The boy looked up from his play to see two strangers, standing at the crossroads, reading the sign. Keeping his eyes on them, the boy continued what he was doing-sailing a makeshift boat in a puddle. But when the larger and stronger of the two men-a warrior, by the number of weapons he carried-ripped the parchment off the post, the boy left the boat to sink slowly into the muddy water. Hidden by a scraggly shrub, the boy crept close to listen.

“Hey, Raist, look at this!” yelled the big man to the other, who stood only a few feet away.

The boy stared at this second man with intense interest. The child had never seen a mage before, he’d only heard about them in tales. He had no trouble recognizing a wizard, however, by his outlandish robes-their color red as blood-the mysterious pouches and feathered amulets that hung from the mage’s simple rope belt, and a black wooden staff on which he leaned when he walked.

“Stop bellowing! I’m not deaf. What have you found?” the mage spoke irritably.

“It says … here, you read it.” The warrior handed over the notice. He watched as the mage studied it. “Well, what do you think? Unless, of course, it’s outdated.”

“This posting is recent. The parchment’s not even weatherworn yet.”

“Oh, yeah. So maybe this is what we’re looking for, huh?”

“Fee negotiable.” The mage frowned. “Still, that’s better than nothing. The reward we earned for ending the curse of Death’s Keep is nearly gone. We’ll never be able to cross New Sea unless we have the means to hire a boat.” He rolled up the parchment and thrust it in the sleeves of his robes.

The warrior sighed. “Another night sleeping on the ground?”

“We need to carefully conserve what little money we have.”

“I guess. I could sure use a mug of ale, though.”

“I’ve no doubt,” said the mage sourly.

“You ever heard of this Mereklar place?” asked the warrior after a pause.

“No, have you?”

“Nope.”

The mage looked from the signpost to the road it indicated. The road was muddy and overgrown with grass and weeds.

“It doesn’t look as if many people have heard of it. I-”

“Whew! Here you are! Finally!”

The boy heard someone gasping in relief. Peering around the hedge, he saw a person, smaller in stature than the other two, pumping up the road as fast as his orange-stockinged legs would carry him.

A kender! recognized the boy and immediately clasped fast in his hand all his worldly possessions, which consisted of a half-eaten apple that had been lunch and a small, broken knife used for whittling boats.

Perhaps the branches of the bush rustled when the boy moved, because he was astonished and alarmed to see the mage suddenly turn his head and cast a piercing glance into the shrubs that concealed him. The boy froze. He’d never seen a face like that, not even in a dream. The mage’s skin had a gold cast to it, and his eyes were golden, the pupils shaped like hourglasses.

Fortunately for the boy, the kender began to talk again.

“I thought I’d never catch up with you two! You left me behind by mistake. Why didn’t you guys tell me you were taking off in the middle of the night? If I hadn’t woken up and seen you two sneaking past my door, carrying your packs, I never would have known which way you were going! As it was, I had to take a moment to gather up all my things and then I had a dreadful time keeping up and once I lost you, but I have a special device that I use for finding my way and it showed me which path you took. Do you want to see it?” The kender began to fumble through innumerable pouches, spilling out various articles and objects into the street. “It’s in here, somewhere.…”

The warrior exchanged a long-suffering glance with the mage. “Uh, no, that’s all right, Earmite-”

“Earwig!” corrected the kender indignantly.

“Uh, yeah. Sorry. Earwig Nosepicker, isn’t it?”

“Lockpicker!” The kender jabbed the forked stick he was carrying into the ground for emphasis. “Lockpicker. A highly honored name among-”

“Come, Caramon,” said the mage in a voice that would have chilled boiling water. “We must be going.”

“Where are we headed?” asked the kender, cheerfully falling into step.

The mage came to a halt and fixed the kender with his strange eyes.

“We aren’t headed anywhere.”

The boy thought that anyone but a kender would have curled up and sunk into the ground under the mage’s baleful stare. But the kender just gazed up at him solemnly.

“Oh, but you need me, Raistlin. You really do. Wasn’t I a help to you in solving the mystery of Death’s Keep? I was. You said so yourself. I gave you the clue that made you think the maiden was the reason for the curse. And Caramon never would have found his favorite dagger if it hadn’t been for me-”

“I never would have lost it, if it hadn’t been for you,” muttered the warrior.

“And then Tasslehoff told me- You remember my cousin, Tasslehoff Burrfoot? Anyway, he told me that you always took him with you on your adventures and that he was always getting you out of trouble and since he’s not around you should take me to do the same thing. And I can tell you lots of interesting stories, like the one about Dizzy Longtongue and the minotaur-”

“Enough!” The mage pulled his cowl farther down over his head, as if the cloth could shut out the monologue.

“Ah, let him come along, Raist,” said the warrior. “It’d be company for us. You know we get bored, just talking to each other.”

“I know I get bored just talking to you, my brother. But I do not think the situation will be alleviated by taking on a kender!”

The mage started off down the road, leaning heavily on his staff and walking slowly, as if he had just been through a recent illness.

“What did he say?” the kender asked, coming to walk beside the warrior.

“I’m not sure,” said the warrior, shaking his head. “But I don’t think it was a compliment.”

“Oh, well,” said the kender, twirling his forked stick in the air until it made a shrill, whistling sound. “I’m not much used to compliments anyway. Where did you say we were going?”

“Mereklar.”

“Mereklar. Never heard of it,” stated the kender happily.

The boy saw the three well on their way before he ran to an old, dilapidated inn that huddled in the woods near the crossroads. A man sat at a table, an untasted drink in his hand.

The boy went up to the man and told what he had seen.

“A warrior, a mage, and a kender. All three heading for Mereklar. And now that I’ve done what you wanted, where’s my money?” the child demanded boldly. “You promised.”

The man asked a few questions, wanting to know what color robes the mage was wearing and if the warrior appeared to be very old and battle-hardened.

“No,” said the boy, considering. “He’s only about the age of my big brother. Twenty or so if he’s a day. But his weapons seemed well used. I don’t think you’ll pick him off so easily.”

The man fished a steel piece from his pocket and tossed it on the table. Rising from his seat with unusual haste, considering he’d been sitting in the inn for three days-ever since he’d posted the sign-the man ran out into the woods and was soon lost to sight in the shadows.