Brother's Majere

Chapter 25

Earwig stared in wonder into the Great Eye, which seemed to be reversed down here-it was black, glimmering with red and a small white dot in the center. Bolts of power arced through the cloudless heavens, reaching out with forked fingers to touch unknown spaces. He thought he might watch that wonderful sight forever-or least the next ten minutes-but an irritating voice inside him kept nagging at him to do something.

“But what, that’s the question? Oh, I remember! I’m supposed to meet Caramon in the center of town.”

Earwig was starting to turn the corner when he almost ran headlong into a group of twisted, demented-looking cats.

The creatures certainly looked interesting. Earwig was considering going up and introducing himself when he remembered that he was on another Very Important Mission. He backed up hurriedly, therefore, sliding with kender agility into a shadow so that the cats wouldn’t be tempted to stop and chat.

A loud noise made him look around curiously. It was a carriage, rumbling past, drawn by nothing at all that the kender could see.

“Gee,” he sighed, watching, “that looks like fun. And it’s heading in the direction I want to go. I guess they wouldn’t mind if I tagged along.”

Earwig dashed out, ran in back of the coach, caught hold, and perched himself on the rear. Kicking his feet, he gazed around happily.

The conveyance raced on, metal-banded wheels clashing noisily against the white stone of the city. He recognized the road they were approaching as Southgate Street. Here the carriage came to a halt. Earwig hopped off and looked around at the front. Three creatures jumped out, stretching lazily, arching their long backs in the manner of cats. Two drank from bottles they wore strapped to shining harnesses. When they were done, they shook their heads violently and grimaced.

“Celebration Punch,” Earwig remarked in sympathetic understanding.

He was about to step forward and inquire the way to the center of the city, or perhaps ask if any of these guys had seen Caramon, when the demented-looking cats jumped back into the carriage. Before the kender could get back on, it careened off down the street.

“Hey!” yelled Earwig, waving his arms. “You forgot me!”

Caramon jumped from rooftop to rooftop, stopping occasionally to catch his breath and rest. He still felt slightly nauseated from the poison and weak from loss of blood. He leaned out over the edge of the roof and saw that he was on Eastgate Street. He had only about another block to go.

“Time to move again. I hope Earwig and Bast are already there so that we can destroy that thing and get the hell out of here.”

Caramon gripped his sword, lowering himself as quickly and quietly as he could manage to the next house. He heard a scraping sound, then silence, then snuffling, as if an animal was following a track. His heart began to beat so hard that he could feel it in his ears.

Caramon forced himself to stay hidden, to wait. He longed to leap up, swinging his sword, and take the demon by surprise. But, considering its speed and incredible senses, he wasn’t sure if that were possible.

A scarlet beam pierced the warrior’s left shoulder, leaving an exit hole out the front of his armor. Wisps of smoke rose from his smoldering shirt. Another bolt seared across his arm as he tried to dodge out of the line of fire. Hoping to distract the creature, he drew a dagger from his belt and threw.

The demon ducked, giving Caramon time to lunge forward, driving his blade into its chest. The demon fell dead.

Fight over, Caramon felt the pain of his wound. The sound of rushing water filled his ears, and the black sky disappeared, lost before the darkness that was covering his eyes. Locking his knees, fearing he might faint, he attempted to keep himself from falling over.

The attempt failed.

He was lying prone, legs stretched out. The temptation to close his eyes and rest until the pain and fear went away was almost overpowering.

“Raist … must find Raist,” Caramon mumbled. Groaning, he forced himself to sit up and examine the wound. The burned shirt and armor had fallen away, revealing the hole, which was sealed by heat.

“At least it won’t get infected,” the fighter giggled and began to laugh. Recognizing that he was nearing hysteria, Caramon choked back his laughter. He staggered to his feet. There was no way he could leap over rooftops. Finding a stair, he stumbled to the street below.

Raistlin stood before Shavas’s estate. The stained-glass windows were more vibrant and alive than ever, casting lines and arcs of color that shot and darted against the ground. The sight no longer fascinated the mage, and he knocked on the entrance door loudly, rapping his knuckles against the wood.

No answer came to his hail, but the door opened before him, closing and locking when he had entered the hallway. The mage walked to the library. It was empty.

Just as well. That made it easier.

Moving to the sideboard, he lifted the bottle of brandywine and removed the stopper. Glancing back at the door, checking to see that he was alone and unobserved, he withdrew the tube from his robes. He took the cap off and started to pour the brown crystals into the bottle. His hand shook.

“If I make a mistake,” he said to himself coolly, “then it will be my last.” He dumped the contents of the tube into the bottle.

Replacing the stopper, he turned and regarded the game board, remembering where he had left off before leaving on his mission for the lady of the house.

Shavas had made a move after he had gone. His champion had been transformed into one of the undead.

“How very fitting,” Raistlin murmured.

Heavy double-doors opened on silent hinges, and perfume wafted into the room. Shavas entered. She was wearing a loose, enfolding gown of purest silk, as white as the curve of her shoulders. The cloth flowed with the graceful movement of her body like wandering wisps of cloud. She smiled at Raistlin. Her face glowed with an inner radiance. She looked as if she had just completed some great triumph and now sought relaxing entertainment.

“I am pleased that you returned, Raistlin,” she said, taking the chair across from the mage. “At last I see we understand each other.”

“Is that the reason for your apparent happiness, Councillor?”

“Councillor? Don’t insult me! I am no longer Councillor. There is, after all, nothing left to counsel.” She laughed at her joke.

“You seem very sure of yourself, my lady,” the mage corrected with emphasis. “The city has not yet fallen.” He moved a priest from its confines behind the lines of his knights and yeomen.

Shavas placed her fingertips on her own priest, deciding on a move. “There is no one to stop us. The people of Mereklar will soon be dead.” She slid the priest forward.

Her move put the mage in a precarious position. Raistlin leaned back, considering. “How long have you lived in this city?” he asked without looking up from the board.

“Oh, many years, many years-in one form or another. I was the first councillor. I will be the last,” the woman replied.

Raistlin looked up at her. The woman’s beautiful eyes gazed directly into the mage’s face.

Rising to his feet, Raistlin walked to the sideboard and picked up the brandy bottle. He poured himself a glass.

“Pour one for me, my love,” said Shavas.

Raistlin shivered at the sound of the word that slid so glibly from tempting lips. He poured a glass of brandy and handed it to her.

“A toast,” he said. “To the Lord of the Cats.”

Shavas gave a small, silvery laugh. “How droll you are!”

Raistlin lifted the glass of brandy to his lips and drank the burning liquid. Shavas drank deeply, her eyes gleaming above the rim of the goblet.

She moved to stand near the mage. Flames from the fire shone through the gossamer of her robes, exposing the curvature of her figure. Languidly, she reached above her head and released the cascading flow of her long brown hair, letting it fall about her face and shoulders.

“What do you want of me?” Raistlin asked. “I am not like my brother. I am not … attractive.”

“You are powerful, Raistlin. I always find power attractive. And you could become more powerful over time.”

“Time? …”

“Yes. We will have all the time in the world.”

“And how would we do that?” he asked, taking another drink from his glass.

“My magic is vast, stronger than almost any you have encountered before. I would be willing to … share it with you.”

“To what end?”

Shavas drank the brandy. Emptying her glass, she filled it again from the decanter and wandered about the library, running her fingers across the suits of armor standing guard in the room. Going to a bookcase, she lifted out a volume. The title, Brothers Majere, was stamped in gold on the back.

“You wear the red robes, mage, but you will not wear them forever. You do not have the patience to stand in the middle. You must make a choice, or your passions will tear you asunder.”

“That may be, but all in my own time. I repeat, what do you want of me?”

“It is, rather, what you want of me,” said Shavas, coming close and putting her soft hand on his arm. “I am offering you the chance to control your own destiny. I am offering you an alliance with the Dark Queen!”