Brothers in Arms

by Margaret Weis

  Downstairs, another roar of laughter. Caramon was in rare form, apparently. Out in the hallway, Raistlin heard two pairs of footfalls and Antimodes’s voice. “I have a map in my room, friend. If you could just be so good as to show me the location of that goblin army. Here is some steel for your trouble. …”

  Raistlin lay in his bed and struggled to breathe while life went on around him. The sun moved across the sky, the shadows of the window frame slid across the ceiling. Raistlin watched them and wished for a cup of the tea he drank that would ease his pain and wondered fretfully that Caramon did not come to check up on him, to see if there was anything he needed.

  But when Caramon did come, late in the afternoon, doing his best to creep into the room without making any noise, he knocked over a pack and woke Raistlin from the first peaceful sleep he’d had in days, for which mistake Caramon received a bitter tongue-lashing and was ordered out of the room.

  Ten miles in a single day. Hundreds of miles to go to reach their destination.

  The journey was going to be a long one.

  3

  RAISTLIN FELT BETTER, STRONGER THE NEXT FEW DAYS. HE WAS ABLE to travel more hours during the day. They reached the outskirts of Qualinesti in good time. Although Antimodes assured them that there was no hurry, that the baron would not muster his army until springtime, the twins hoped to reach the baron’s headquarters, a fortress built on an inlet of New Sea, far to the east of Solace, before winter set in. They hoped to be able to at least have their names entered upon the rolls, to perhaps find a way to earn some money in the baron’s service, for the twins were now desperately short of coins. Their plans were thrown awry, however. A river crossing proved disastrous.

  They were fording the Elfstream when Raistlin’s horse slipped on a rock and went down, throwing his rider into the water. Fortunately, the river was slow and sluggish in mid-autumn, after the rushing of the snowmelt in the spring. The water broke his fall, and Raistlin received no greater injury than loss of dignity and a dunking. But a soaking rainstorm that night prevented him from drying off. A chill set in and struck through to the bone.

  The next day, he rode shivering beneath a hot sun and by nightfall had fallen into feverish delirium. Antimodes, who had rarely been sick in his life, knew nothing about treating illness. Had Raistlin been conscious, he could have helped himself, for he was a skilled herbalist, but he wandered in dark dreams, horrifying dreams, to judge by his cries and his moans. Desperate with worry for his twin, Caramon risked entering the woods of the Qualinesti elves, hoping to be able to find some among them who would come to his brother’s aid.

  Arrows fell thick as wheat stalks at his feet, but that did not deter him. He shouted to the unseen archers, “Let me talk to Tanis Half-Elven! I am a friend of Tanis’s! He will vouch for us! My brother is dying! I need your aid!”

  Unfortunately, the mention of Tanis’s name seemed to make matters worse, not better, for the next arrow pierced Caramon’s hat, and another grazed his arm, drawing blood. Admitting defeat, he cursed all elves heartily (though under his breath) and retreated from the woods.

  The next morning, Raistlin’s fever had abated somewhat, enough to permit him to speak rationally. Clutching Caramon’s arm, Raistlin whispered, “Haven! Take me to Haven! Our friend, Lemuel, will know what to do for me!”

  They traveled to Haven with speed, Caramon holding his ill brother in his arm, propped up in front of him on his saddle, Antimodes galloping behind, leading Raistlin’s horse by the reins.

  Lemuel was a mage. He was an inept mage, a reluctant mage, but he was a mage, and he and Raistlin had developed an odd sort of friendship on an earlier, ill-fated trip to Haven. Lemuel still held a fondness for Raistlin and readily welcomed him and his brother and the archmagus to his house. Giving Raistlin the very best bedroom, Lemuel saw to it that Antimodes and Caramon were comfortable in other rooms of the large house, then set about doing what he could to help the gravely ill young man.

  “He is very sick, there’s no doubt about that,” Lemuel told the distraught Caramon, “but I don’t believe there is cause for alarm. A cold that flew to his chest. Here is a list of some herbs I need. You know where to find the herbalist shop? Excellent. Run along. And don’t forget the ipecac.”

  Caramon left, almost staggering with fatigue but unable to sleep or rest until he was assured his twin was being treated.

  Lemuel made certain that Raistlin was resting as comfortably as possible, then went to the kitchen to fetch some cool water, to lave the young man’s skillet-hot body, make some attempt to reduce the fever. He encountered Antimodes, enjoying a cup of tea.

  Antimodes was a middle-aged human, dapper in his dress, wearing fine, expensive robes. He was a powerful mage, though economic with his power. He didn’t like to soil his clothes, as the saying went. By contrast, Lemuel was short, tubby, of a cheerful disposition. He liked nothing better than to work in his garden. As for magic, he had barely enough to boil water.

  “Excellent brew this,” said the archmagus, who had, in fact, boiled the water himself. “What is it?”

  “Chamomile with a touch of mint,” said Lemuel. “I picked the mint this morning.”

  “How is the young man?” Antimodes asked.

  “Not good,” said Lemuel, sighing. “I didn’t like to say anything with his brother around, but he has pneumonia. Both lungs are filled with fluid.”

  “Can you help him?”

  “I will do what I can for him. But he is very ill. I am afraid …” Lemuel’s voice trailed off. He shook his head again.

  Antimodes was silent a moment, sipping at his tea and frowning at the teapot. “Well, perhaps it is better this way,” he said at last.

  “My dear sir!” Lemuel exclaimed, shocked. “You can’t mean that! He’s so young!”

  “You see how he has changed. You know that he took the Test.”

  “Yes, Archmagus. His brother told me. The change is … quite … remarkable.” Lemuel shivered. He cast the archmagus a sidelong glance. “Still, I suppose the Order knows what it is doing.”

  He cocked an ear down the hallway, listening for his patient, whom he had left in a fitful, troubled sleep.

  “You’d like to think so, wouldn’t you,” Antimodes muttered gloomily.

  Lemuel was uncomfortable at this, not certain how to reply. Filling his basin with water, he started to leave.

  “You knew Raistlin before, I believe,” Antimodes stated abruptly.

  “Yes, Archmagus,” Lemuel said, turning back to his guest. “He has visited me several times.”

  “What do you think of him?”

  “He performed a very great service for me, sir,” Lemuel replied, flushing. “I am in his debt. Perhaps you have not heard that story? I was being driven out of my home by a cult of fanatics who worshiped a snake god. Belzor, I think his name was, or some such thing. Raistlin was able to prove that the magic the cultists claimed came from the gods was actually ordinary, run-of-the-mill magic. He very nearly died—”

  Antimodes used the sugar spoon to wave away death and gratitude. “I know. I heard. Aside from that, what do you think of him?”

  “I like him,” said Lemuel. “Oh, he has his faults. I admit that. But then, which of us does not? He is ambitious. I was ambitious once myself at that age. He is completely and wholly dedicated to the art—”

  “Some might say obsessed,” Antimodes observed darkly.

  “But then so was my father. I believe you knew him, sir?”

  Antimodes bowed. “I had the honor. A fine man and an excellent wizard.”

  “Thank you. I myself was a sad disappointment to my father, as you can imagine,” Lemuel said, with a self-deprecating smile. “When I first met Raistlin, I said to myself, ‘This is the son my father wanted.’ I felt a kind of brotherly feeling toward him.”

  “Brother! Be thankful you are not his brother!” Antimodes said sternly.

  The archmagus frowned so darkly, spoke in such a solemn tone that Lemuel,
who could make nothing of this strange statement, excused himself by saying that he had to go check on his patient and left the kitchen with haste.

  Antimodes remained at the table, so absorbed in his thoughts that he forgot the tea in the cup. “Near to death, is he? I’ll wager he doesn’t die. You”—he glowered at the thin air, as if it held a disembodied spirit—“you won’t let him die, will you? Not without exerting every effort to save him. For if he dies, you die. And who am I to judge him, after all? Who has foreseen the role he is destined to play in the terrible times that are fast approaching? Not I, that is for certain. And not Par-Salian, either, though he would like very much for us to think so!”

  Antimodes looked gloomily into the teacup, as if he could read the future in the leaves.

  “Well, well, young Raistlin,” he said after a moment, “I am sorry for you, that much I can say. Sorry for you and sorry for your brother. The gods—if there be gods—help you both. Here’s to your health.”

  Antimodes raised the teacup to his lips and took a sip. Finding the tea cold, he immediately spit it back out.

  Raistlin did not die. Whether it was Lemuel’s herbs, Caramon’s patient nursing, Antimodes’s prayer, or the watchful care of one on another plane of existence, one whose life-force was inextricably bound up with the life of the young mage, or whether it was none of these and Raistlin’s will alone that saved him, no one could say. One night, after a week during which he hovered in a no-man’s-land between life and death, life won the battle. The fever broke, he breathed easier, and sank into a restful sleep.

  He was weak—incredibly weak, so weak that he could not lift his head from the pillow without his brother’s strong arm to support him. Antimodes postponed his own journey, lingered in Haven long enough to see that the young man had pulled through. Certain that Raistlin would live, the archmagus left for his own home, hoping to reach Balifor before winter storms made the roads impassable. He gave Caramon a letter of introduction to be given to Baron Ivor in Antimodes’s absence.

  “Don’t kill yourselves getting there,” said Antimodes on the day of his departure. “As I tried telling you before, the baron will not be happy to see you now anyway. He and his soldiers will sit idle all winter, and you two would be just two more mouths to feed. In the spring, he will begin receiving offers for his army’s services. Never fear that you will lack work! The Baron of Langtree and his mercenaries are well known and well respected throughout this part of Ansalon. He and his soldiers are in high demand.”

  “Thank you very much, sir,” said Caramon gratefully. He helped Antimodes mount the recalcitrant Jenny, who had taken quite a liking to Lemuel’s sweet apples and was in no hurry to resume her journey. “Thank you for this and for everything that you have done for us.” Caramon flushed. “About what I said back there, when we were riding out of the forest. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. If it hadn’t been for you, sir, Raist never would have fulfilled his dream.”

  “Ah, dear me, my young friend,” Antimodes said with a sigh, resting his hand on Caramon’s shoulder. “Don’t lay that burden on me, as well.”

  He gave Jenny a flick of the riding crop on her broad rump, which did nothing to improve her temper, and the donkey trotted off, leaving Caramon standing in the middle of the road, scratching his head.

  Raistlin’s health mended slowly. Caramon worried that they were a burden to Lemuel and hinted more than once that he thought his brother could make the trip back to their home in Solace. But Raistlin had no desire to return to their home, not yet. Not while he was still weak, his appearance so terribly altered.

  He could not bear the thought of any of their friends seeing him like this. He envisioned Tanis’s concern, Flint’s shock, Tasslehoff’s prying questions, Sturm’s disdain. He writhed at the thought and vowed by the gods of magic, by all three gods of magic, that he would never return to Solace until he could do so with pride in himself and with power in his hand.

  In answer to Caramon’s concerns, Lemuel invited the two young men to stay as long as they needed, to stay all winter if they wanted. The shy and diffident mage enjoyed the company of the two young men. He and Raistlin shared an interest in herbs and herb lore and, when Raistlin was stronger, the two of them spent the days quite pleasantly pounding up leaves with a mortar and pestle, experimenting with various ointments and salves, or exchanging notes on such topics as how best to rid roses of aphids and chrysanthemums of spider mites.

  Raistlin was generally in a better humor when he was in Lemuel’s company. He curbed his sarcastic tongue in Lemuel’s presence, was much kinder and more patient with Lemuel than he was with his own brother. Prone to self-analysis, Raistlin wondered why this should be so. One obvious reason was that he genuinely liked the cheerful and unassuming mage. Unfortunately, he also found that part of his kindness stemmed from a vague sense of guilt in regard to Lemuel. Raistlin couldn’t define his guilt or understand the reason for it. So far as he could remember, he had never done or said anything to Lemuel for which he need apologize. He had committed no ungenerous act. But he felt as if he had, and the feeling bothered him. Oddly enough, Raistlin discovered that he could not walk into Lemuel’s kitchen without experiencing an overwhelming sense of dread, which always brought the image of a dark elf to mind. Raistlin could only assume that Lemuel had somehow been involved in his Test, but how or why he had no idea, and, search his mind as he might, he could not dredge up the memory.

  Once assured that Raistlin was out of danger and that Lemuel really wanted them to stay, that he wasn’t just being polite, Caramon settled down to enjoy the winter in Haven. He earned a few coins by doing odd jobs for people—chopping wood, repairing roofs damaged in the fall rains, helping bring in the harvest, for he and Raistlin insisted on helping with Lemuel’s household expenses. Thus Caramon came to know a great many of the town’s citizens, and it was not long before the big man was as popular and well liked in Haven as he had been in Solace.

  Caramon had girl friends by the score. He fell in love several times a week and was always on the verge of marrying someone, but never did. The girls always ended up marrying someone else, someone richer, someone who did not have a wizard for a brother. Caramon’s heart was never truly broken, although he swore it was often enough and would spend the afternoon telling Lemuel in dolorous tones that he was finished with women for good, only to be entwined in a pair of soft, warm arms that very night.

  Caramon discovered a tavern, the Haven Arms, and made that his second home. The ale was almost as good as Otik’s, and the scrapple, made with scraps of pork, stewed with meal and pressed into cakes, was much better than Otik’s, although Caramon would have allowed himself to be stewed with meal before he admitted it. Caramon never went to the tavern, he never went out to work, never left the house before making certain that there was nothing he could do for his brother.

  Relations between the two—strained almost to the breaking point after the terrible incident in the Tower—eased over the winter. Raistlin had forbidden Caramon ever to mention the occurrence, and the two never discussed it.

  Gradually, after thinking it over, Caramon came to believe that his apparent murder at the hands of his twin was his fault, a belief that Raistlin did not dispute.

  I deserved death at my brother’s hands, was the thought lurking somewhere in the back of Caramon’s mind. He did not blame his brother in the least. If somewhere deep inside him, some part of Caramon was grieved and unhappy, he took care to trample on that part until he had stomped it into the soil of his soul, covered it with guilt, and watered it generously with dwarf spirits. He was the strong twin, after all. His brother was frail and needed protection.

  Deep inside himself, Raistlin felt shame for his jealous rage. He was appalled to learn that he had the capability within him to kill his brother. He, too, trampled on his emotions, smoothed out the soil, so that no one—least of all himself—would ever find out anything had been buried there. Raistlin comforted himself with the idea that he’d
known all along the image of Caramon wasn’t real, that he’d murdered nothing but an illusion.

  By Yule time, the relationship between the twins was almost back to what it had once been before the infamous Test. Raistlin did not like the cold and snow. He never ventured out of Lemuel’s comfortable house, and he enjoyed listening to Caramon’s gossip. Raistlin enjoyed proving to his own satisfaction that his fellow mortals were fools and idiots, while Caramon took immense pleasure in bringing a smile—albeit it a sardonic smile—to his twin’s lips, lips that were too often stained with blood.

  Raistlin spent his winter months in study. He knew now at least some of the magic contained within the staff of Magius, and though he found it frustrating to know that there were more spells that he did not know, perhaps would never know, he reveled in the knowledge that he possessed the staff and others did not. He worked on his war wizard spells, as well, in preparation for the day soon coming when he and Caramon would join up with the mercenary army, there to make their fortunes—of that both young men were firmly convinced.

  Raistlin read numerous texts on the subject—many of them left behind by Lemuel’s father—and he practiced combining his magic with Caramon’s swordsmanship. The two killed a great many imaginary foes and a tree or two (several of Raistlin’s early fire-based spells having gone awry), and were soon confident that they were already as good as professionals. Congratulating themselves on their skill, they agreed between them that they could take on an army of hobgoblins all by themselves. They half hoped that such an army might attack Haven during the winter and when no hobgoblins ventured near, the twins expressed resentment against the entire race of hobgoblins, a soft race, who would apparently rather skulk about in warm caves than go to battle.

  Spring came to Haven, returning with the robins, the kender, and other wayfarers, bringing proof that the roads were open and the traveling season had begun. It was time for the twins to head east, to find a ship to take them to Langtree Manor, located in the town of Langtree on the Green, the largest city in the barony of Langtree.