Brother's Majere

by Kevin Stein

“I must get back to my work now,” said the cook, backing up. “I just wanted to tha—”

  Raistlin reached out a skeletal hand and took hold of the woman’s arm. She cringed, shrinking backward.

  “Thank you, mistress,” he said softly. “This is a wondrous charm you have given me. I shall cherish it always.”

  The woman’s thin face brightened with pleasure. Bending down, she timidly kissed his hand, shuddering slightly at the feel of the too-warm skin. The mage let loose of her arm, and she fled out the door.

  Alone again, Raistlin tried to recapture the dream, but it wouldn’t be caught. Sighing, he stuffed the charm into one of his pouches, and—leaning on the staff—pulled himself to his feet. He took one final look out the window and saw, shimmering along the grass, the strange white line leading north, leading to Mereklar.

  Raistlin walked outside the inn. The staff’s golden claw shone in the sunlight, the pale blue orb it held seemed to absorb the dawn, transforming the light into its own.

  “Where’s Caramon?” the mage asked Earwig, who was sitting hunched over on the packs.

  “He told me to stay here and wait for him, but it’s getting awfully boring. Can’t we go now?”

  “Where—” began Raistlin again.

  “Oh, he went around the side of the building about a minute ago.” The kender pointed.

  Raistlin looked at the packs that had obviously been rifled and wondered just how much of their possessions had made their way into Earwig’s pouches. Caramon was such a fool sometimes.

  The mage, face set into grim lines, stalked around to the back of the inn. He found his brother and one of the barmaids embracing, the warrior’s huge body enfolding the girl’s smaller one.

  Raistlin stared silently. A slight breeze barely moved his robes, the only motion around his body. No breath could be heard, no sound passed from his lips. Emotions surged from a well he knew must be sealed forever if he was to achieve true power. He stood and watched, his chest burning, though a coolness was already rushing from within to extinguish the heat. Even with great effort of will, there was something that made him stand and watch until he could bear no more.

  “Come, Caramon! We don’t have time for another one of your little conquests!” Raistlin hissed.

  He enjoyed watching them both jump, enjoyed seeing the girl flush red with shame, his brother red with embarrassment.

  The mage turned around, digging the staff deep into the ground, and walked back to the front of the inn.

  “I’ve got to go now,” Caramon said, swallowing his passion.

  “Sure,” Maggie whispered, brushing her disheveled hair from her face. “Here. I want you to have this.” She thrust something into the bosom of his shirt. “Just a charm. To remember me and to bring you good luck in your journeying.”

  “I’ll never forget you!” Caramon vowed, as he had vowed a hundred times before to a hundred women before, each time meaning it with all his heart and soul.

  “Oh, get along with you!” said Maggie, giving him a playful shove. Sighing, she sank back against a tree, her eyes half-closed, watching the warrior run after the mage.

  The companions started on their way, walking for a time in silence—the mage working off his ire, the warrior letting his twin cool down. Earwig, mercifully, had dashed up ahead “to check things out.”

  The road was empty, though there was evidence that a horse had galloped over it not many hours before. Its hooves had dug deep into the damp earth.

  Raistlin studied the horse’s hoofprints and wondered what urgency had driven a rider to press his animal so. There could be any number of reasons, but the mage felt suddenly, intuitively, that it had something to do with them. An uneasiness was growing in Raistlin. He had the distinct impression that, instead of walking toward Mereklar, they should be hastening away from it. He came to a stop.

  “Caramon. What is that?” Raistlin pointed with the staff toward a spot in the mudddy road.

  Caramon came back to look. “That track?” The warrior knelt down, brow furrowed in concentration. “I’m not sure, Raist,” he said, rising to his feet, his face carefully expressionless. “I’m not a very good tracker. You’d have to get one of those Que-shu barbarians—”

  “Caramon, what kind of animal made that track?”

  The warrior looked uncomfortable. “Well, if I had to say—”

  “You do.”

  “I guess … a cat.”

  “A cat?” Raistlin’s eyes narrowed.

  “A … big … cat.” Caramon gulped.

  “Thank you, my brother.” Raistlin continued walking.

  Caramon, falling in next to him, sighed in relief that his twin’s ill humor was apparently over. The warrior drew a small ball of cloth out of his pocket. He put it to his nose, sniffing at it and smiled at the sweet, spicy smell. The ball was decorated with sequins that had been sewn onto it by loving hands. A long yellow ribbon—a hair ribbon—fluttered gaily from the top.

  “What’s that?” Raistlin asked coldly.

  “A gift. It’s supposed to bring good fortune!” Caramon held it up by the ribbon, spinning it in the morning’s light, watching the sequins reflect a rainbow of fascinating colors.

  The mage thrust his hand into his pouch, his fingers touching his own gift of the morning.

  “You’re a superstitious fool, brother!” Raistlin said with a sneer.

  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.
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br />   “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—”