Brother's Majere

by Kevin Stein

  He bowed respectfully. Closing the door as quietly as possible so as not to disturb his hostess, the man walked swiftly and thankfully out of the house. Mounting his nervous horse, he rode away into the city, eager to return to the comfort of his own home, where the rooms did not abhor his presence.

  The lady in the black cowl had lived in the house atop the only hill in Mereklar all of her life. She felt comfortable in its rooms and hallways, the lights from outside creating patterns through the stained glass as mysterious as the lights shining from within.

  After her agent had left, she rose gracefully in a single, fluid motion from her chair and walked confidently through the darkness of the study to a door in the east wall. The unseen waterclock that still ticked away the hours was the only sound in the house. The lady made no noise as she glided through a door into a side hall. Here she came to another door, set at the end of the corridor. She entered an arboretum, moved along a narrow path to the huge glass door facing the outside, then left the garden, closing the door behind her. The cowl of her robes was pulled low, hiding her face from the faces of the moons.

  With sure and steady strides in the moonlit darkness, she quickly traversed one of the gardens surrounding her home. Coming to an old tree, dead and brown and pitted, she pushed away bramble with her foot, revealing an entrance leading into the ground—a passage devoid of light. She walked with even steps into the darkness.

  Traveling untold distances, finding her way through mazes, paths, and passageways that went in all directions, she finally reached her destination—a cavern of stone flattened at the end opposite the entrance. Torches flickered in sconces, a stage for dancing shadows. In the center of the hall stood a rounded semicircle of stone holding a slab of rock so large it would require hundreds of men to move it. Standing around this altar were nine people, each wearing robes of state and service.

  “You are late, Shavas,” Lord Alvin said as he turned to face the entrance.

  “Yes,” said the woman in the doorway, stepping into the room, torchlight shadows staining her gown.

  The ministers looked at each other, then at the woman.

  “What news do you bring us?” asked another when it was obvious the woman was not going to offer an excuse.

  The lord who spoke was a short man, stoop-shouldered, a gold medallion shaped like a sunburst weighing down his thin frame. He was dressed in a dark blue coat lined with gold-braided trim. Gold buttons ran down the front of his shirt, partially hidden by a dark blue vest.

  “The three men are coming to the city’s aid.”

  “And they will solve the mystery of the disappearing cats?” the short man asked again.

  “They will try,” corrected Shavas, the hood of her robes still hiding her face.

  “We don’t want panic,” remarked a stern-faced, gray-haired woman. “We’re close to that now.”

  “There’s no choice,” Lord Alvin spoke shortly. “You must hire these men, Shavas.”

  “I concur,” said Lord Brunswick.

  The consenting murmurs of the others filled the room, their united voices muffled in the underground cavern.

  “What you mean is that you want me to do what is needed to repair your blunder,” Shavas said. She flashed them a scornful glance, turned, and walked from the room. Her right hand gripped tightly a large fire opal she wore around her neck, holding onto it as if she were holding onto her very life.

  That same night, someone else at the inn noticed the rider’s hasty departure with interest. A black shape, almost invisible in the darkness, bounded down the same path the rider had taken. Moonlight glinted red in its eyes.

  Chapter 7

  Caramon awoke the next morning with a pounding in his head that his metal-working friend, Flint Fireforge, would have envied. The steady hammer blows, falling with excruciating regularity, made him wince with pain. The delicate sounds of chirping birds were like the clash of spears, and the shuffling noises of the other patrons at the inn created a wave of agony.

  Slowly drawing the sheets back from his head, exposing only his sleep-matted hair and bloodshot, half-closed eyes, the fighter glanced around the room, wincing again as a shaft of light struck him full in the face.

  “A cruel blow!” he muttered.

  Quickly pulling the sheets back over his head, Caramon lifted the bedspread from the side—avoiding another bright onslaught—and peered across the room to his brother. Still asleep, Raistlin appeared to be in pain—his back was arched slightly, his hands were curled into claws. But he breathed easily. Caramon sighed in relief.

  The warrior glanced over to Earwig’s bed, hoping that the kender—with his shrill voice—was also still asleep. He was, if the steady rise and fall of his blankets was any indication.

  “Good,” said Caramon to himself. “I’ll go downstairs and use my tried-and-true remedy for overindulgence.”

  The warrior eased himself out of bed, his head bent against the morning’s light.

  “Good morning, Caramon!” Earwig shrilled cheerfully, his voice piercing Caramon’s skull. The warrior fell over the bed as if toppled by a mighty blow.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so miserable. Thinking of Flint reminded him of one of the old dwarf’s many sayings, “A fighter’s greatest enemy is himself.” He had never understood what that meant until now. He wondered, too, if Flint had been referring to that terrible stuff—dwarf spirits—that had been the warrior’s downfall.

  “Earwig,” Caramon began, speaking softly through clenched teeth, his hands slowly clamping his head to ease the pressure. “If you don’t shut up, I’m going to have to kill you.”

  “What?” Earwig shouted, his voice just as loud as before. “What did you say? I couldn’t hear you. Would you repeat that, please?”

  In answer, Caramon grabbed a pillow with his left hand, walked over to the kender, and bagged Earwig’s head with the pillowcase.

  “Is this a game? What do I do now?” cried the kender, highly excited.

  “Just sit there,” growled Caramon, “till I tell you to move.”

  “All right. Say, this is fun.” Earwig, pillowcase over his head, composed himself to wait for whatever wonderful part of the game was going to come next.

  Caramon walked out of the room.

  Going to the well outside, he brought up a bucket of cold water and immersed his head in it. Sputtering, he shook himself like a dog, wiping his face on his shirt sleeves.

  Returning indoors, still rubbing himself dry, Caramon went into the eating hall, where breakfast was being served. The smell of eggs, bacon, and hot muffins helped ease the unrelenting pain in his head and reminded him that he hadn’t eaten since dinner last night—and that had been interrupted.

  It’s a good thing I never get sick when I drink, he thought to himself with pride.

  The room was practically empty. The few sullen patrons seated there glanced at the big man, scowled, and glanced away.

  Caramon ignored them. Going to the table he had occupied last night, he plopped his body down with such force that he almost fell over on the bench. Righting himself, the warrior sat very still until the queasiness left him.

  “Well, almost never,” he amended.

  “What can I get for you this morning?” It was Yost, the innkeeper, a slight smile stealing across his face.

  “A drink. Two-thirds grain, one part juice, one part cooking spice, and a green vegetable stalk, something absolutely tasteless. And plenty of pepper,” Caramon added.

  “Ah,” said Yost, “a seasoned warrior. The Old Fighter’s Favorite. And I bet you’ll be wanting some breakfast as well. Maggie!”—his yell caused Caramon to groan aloud—“bring something to eat for the gentleman here.”

  Caramon drank three Old Fighter’s Favorites, gulping the first two down quickly. The heavy taste of pepper drowned out the horrible taste of the brew. He stirred each one with a vegetable stalk absentmindedly as he poked at his food with a fork, unsure if he could stomach anything.


  By the fourth dose of cure, however, Caramon’s appetite came back. He ate slowly at first, building momentum. Eventually, he felt more like himself, and he sat back against the wall, leaning the bench backward, his shoulders propping him up. The other patrons had gone, the fighter was the only one in the tavern.

  Yost came over to stand by Caramon and glanced about with a gloomy air. “If this trouble doesn’t end soon, I’ll be ruined. The Festival of the Eye is coming up. A lot of people from Mereklar come to my inn to celebrate. But they won’t this year. Maggie, clear the table.”

  Maggie hustled over and began picking up plates and stacking them on a wooden tray. Caramon noted that she was an unusually pretty, red-cheeked girl with a buxom figure and straw-colored hair worn tied up with a yellow ribbon. He seemed to dimly recall that she had smiled at him last night.

  “Here, that’s too heavy for you,” he said, taking the tray from her.

  “Oh, no, sir. This is my job,” said Maggie, flushing deeply and trying to take the tray back.

  During the friendly wrestling match that ensued, Caramon managed to kiss a rosy cheek. Maggie slapped him playfully, and the tray filled with dishes nearly ended up on the floor.

  “Which way to the kitchen?” asked Caramon, who had emerged as the victor.

  “It’s over here, sir.” Blushing furiously, Maggie led the way. Caramon followed, carrying the tray, and a morose Yost brought up the rear.

  The kitchen was large and spotlessly clean. Numerous pots and pans hung from hooks nailed into the whitewashed walls.

  “Any more for breakfast?” asked the cook, a small, thin, dark-haired woman.

  “No,” said Yost gloomily.

  The cook began to make ready for the luncheon guests. Maggie motioned Caramon to one of the sinks. Quickly taking the plates from the tray he carried, she plunged them into the soapy water.

  “Well, Master Innkeeper,” Caramon began, talking to Yost but looking Maggie boldly in the eye, causing her to blush again and nearly drop a cup. “If it makes you feel better, my brother and I are going to Mereklar to try to earn that reward.”

  “Oh, are you, really?” Maggie turned, her motion sending a spray of bubbles over Caramon. “Lord! I’m sorry, sir!”

  Grabbing a towel, she tried to dry the warrior’s expansive chest. Caramon caught hold of her hand and held it fast. The girl’s eyes were brown, with long lashes. Her hair was the color of the leaves of the vallenwood trees in autumn. She didn’t even come up to his shoulder. Caramon’s heart beat fast. He bent down to steal another kiss, but Maggie—with a sidelong glance at her employer—pulled away and began to wash dishes at a furious pace.

  Yost nodded. “I figured as much. That mage asking all those questions. He really your brother?”

  “My twin brother,” said Caramon proudly. “He took the Test in the Tower of High Sorcery when he was only twenty. The youngest ever. And he passed. Though it cost him … cost both of us,” the warrior added, but only to himself, beneath his breath.

  Maggie heard, however, and gave him a warm and sympathetic glance. “He’s real sick, your brother,” she said in a soft voice.

  “Yeah. I worry about him a lot. But,” Caramon spoke hastily, seeing Yost’s face grow longer, “he’s stronger than he seems. If anyone can solve this mystery of yours about the cats, Raistlin can. He got all the brains, you see, and I got the muscle,” the big man said cheerfully.

  “Why would you bother with us?” Yost asked, staring at Caramon suspiciously.

  “We’re low on funds. We can use the job. Though, of course, more personal reasons have come up.” He winked at Maggie, who smiled demurely.

  “And what, if I may ask,” Yost continued, “would a mage want with money? I thought they could conjure it out of thin air or something.”

  “They don’t do that. It’s just a myth, like touching a frog and getting warts,” Caramon said loftily, showing off his vast knowledge of magic.

  “Toad,” the cook corrected quietly under her breath, without looking up from her work, sifting flour into a large bowl.

  Caramon glanced at her in astonishment.

  “You get warts from a toad,” she repeated. “And we don’t need any magic-users around here.”

  “There’s never been one,” agreed Yost, “and we’ve got along fine so far. It seems odd, you know.” His voice hardened. “Our cats disappearing and your brother coming into town about the same time.”

  “From what I’ve heard, your cats began disappearing weeks ago. My brother and I weren’t anywhere near—” Caramon began hotly.

  “There was a wizard lived here once,” Maggie interposed quickly. “Remember, Yost? That crazy old hermit who had a cave in the mountains?”

  “Oh, him,” said the innkeeper, remembering, “I’d almost forgotten about him. He never bothered us. Word was that he died, scared to death by spooks or something like that.”

  “Nobody knows for sure,” added the cook ominously, concentrating on her pie crusts.

  “Well, it doesn’t matter.” Yost frowned, dismissed the subject. “I was just wondering why a wizard would want to help us, that’s all.”

  “My brother has his own reasons,” Caramon said curtly. “He’s done a lot of things just to help others, like expose that phoney cleric at Larnish.”

  “Larnish!” the cook exclaimed. She dropped a bag of flour on the table in front of her, sending a small, spectral cloud of white into the air.

  “You’ve heard of it?” Caramon asked.

  “I had people there,” the cook answered.

  The warrior waited, but she said nothing more.

  “Well, I say it bodes no good! Mages! Huh!” muttered Yost, and walked out of the kitchen.

  “Here, I can dry those for you,” said Caramon, grabbing a dishtowel and sidling up beside Maggie.

  “Oh, no, sir! This is woman’s work! Besides, you might break—”

  Maggie stopped, noting that Caramon was drying the plates swiftly, deftly.

  “My mother was sick a lot,” said Caramon quietly, by way of explanation. “My brother and I got used to fending for ourselves. Raist always washed and I dried. It was fun. We enjoyed it. We used to talk …” His voice died as the warrior remembered happier times.

  But Maggie was smiling at him, a smile that lit the room more brightly than the sun shining through the window.

  Returning to his room, Caramon found Raistlin and Earwig finishing breakfast.

  “I don’t think much of that game, Caramon,” said Earwig severely.

  “Huh?” The big warrior looked blank.

  “Never mind,” snapped Raistlin. “Where’ve you been?”

  “Oh, just visiting. Finding out a few things. Can I help you pack, Raistlin?” Caramon walked over to his brother, who was poking his fork at a small piece of bread and assorted pieces of fruit.

  “I’m already packed.” Raistlin seemed unusually distant, withdrawn. His face had a gray tinge, and there were dark circles beneath his eyes.

  “Bad night?” asked Caramon.

  “The dream again,” Raistlin answered briefly. He looked away from his brother to stare out the window.

  “I’m packed, too!” Earwig stuffed a huge piece of a corncake into his mouth. Syrup dripped down his chin and back onto the plate in front of him. Still chewing, he gulped milk from a mug.

  “Earwig, go outside,” ordered Caramon.

  “I’m not done!”

  “You’re done. Raist, I think I should—”

  “That is an excellent suggestion. Wait outside with him, my brother.”

  “But—”

  “Go!” the mage commanded, thin hands clenching into fists. He stared out the window.

  “Sure, Raist. We’ll wait for you downstairs. Come when you’re ready.”

  Caramon grabbed his pack and his brother’s and left the room. Taking a last gulp from his mug, Earwig followed.

  Raistlin heard the door close behind them. The sun, warm and encouraging
, shone through the window, causing the mage’s skin to glow with an inner golden light that seemed healthy in comparison with the sickly tinge it had acquired the night before. He reached over and touched the Staff of Magius with his hand, finding comfort in the feel of the wood.

  “Why can’t I remember? And why am I maddened by a half-dream I can’t recall? It was important. Something important—”

  “Excuse me, sir,” came a timid voice, taut with fear.

  Raistlin turned swiftly. He had not heard the door open. “What do you want?” he asked dourly, seeing a thin, dark-haired woman standing in the doorway.

  The woman blanched at his harsh tone, but, gathering her courage, she took a trembling step forward into the room.

  “Pardon, sir, but I was talking to your brother, and he said you was the one brought about the downfall of the cleric of Larnish?”

  The mage’s eyes narrowed. Was this some religious fanatic, about to berate him? “He was a fraud and a charlatan. A third-rate illusionist,” Raistlin whispered. Turning to face the woman, he pulled back his hood.

  The woman saw hourglass eyes sunken into golden skin, reflecting in the morning light. The sight was alarming, but she held her ground.

  “He stole money from innocent people in the name of his false gods,” Raistlin continued. “He ruined countless lives. Yes, I was responsible for his downfall. I repeat again, woman, what do you want of me?”

  “I’ve … I’ve just come to thank ye, and give ye this,” the cook said. She crept nearer the mage, holding something in her hand. “My boy, sir. He was one of them that was took in. He’s back home with me now, sir, and doing well.”

  The woman dropped her gift in the mage’s lap.

  “It’s a good-fortune charm,” the woman said shyly.

  Raistlin lifted it. The amulet sparkled and glimmered, shining and glittering as it spun slowly on its chain. It was ancient, the jewels in it valuable. He recognized it as a treasured possession, one that could have been sold to ease poverty, but was kept in remembrance of loved ones long dead.