Brother's Majere p-3

by Kevin Stein

  Raistlin snarled in irritation, then began to cough. The spasms seemed almost to be trying to tear him apart. He leaned on his staff, relying on its strength to hold him up until he could breathe easier again. This time, Caramon knew his brother wasn’t faking.

  “Take me to my room,” gasped Raistlin, holding out his arm for the warrior.

  Caramon gently helped his twin up the flight of stairs to the room on the second floor. Passing a small, open window, he saw that it was night. The two moons gracefully rose in the eastern sky, the silver and red crescents fuller now than they had been a few days ago.

  When the twins reached room 221, Raistlin began to shake, coughing violently, his breath leaving his body and refusing to return. Caramon quickly opened the door and led his brother to a bed near the fireplace. There was a small stack of wood in the grate.

  Moving quickly, Caramon began building a fire.

  “Stop,” Raistlin ordered Caramon in a choked voice. “Go downstairs and fetch some boiling water. Quickly!” he added when he saw his brother hesitate, not willing to leave the mage alone with his pain.

  Caramon ran out of the room and down the stairs to do as he was bid.

  Raistlin sat, leaning forward over the floor, holding his staff in straining hands, watching stars sparkle and glimmer before him. Lack of air and muscle spasms caused his eyes to play tricks on him. Fumbling at the herbal bag, he held it to his mouth and breathed. He looked again deep within himself, deep within the dark where the stars truly shone in his own night sky, where the sun shone in the same sphere. He still ruled, his goals firm, his desires unwavering.

  Hearing Caramon pounding back up the stairs, Raistlin stood the staff against the bed and began to take out the medicine he needed for his drink. Caramon carried a pot of water, curling steam rising from the top, in his hand. Raistlin motioned him over to the bed and held out a small bag filled with the leaves that suppressed the mage’s sickness, if only for a while.

  Caramon hastily poured water into a cup, poking his finger into the scalding water, hoping to create the mixture before his brother started coughing again.

  Raistlin, watching, said breathily, “Remember, Caramon, shaken, not stirred.”

  The bitter smell of the tea filled the room. The twins’ mother had always said, “The worse medicine tastes, the better it works.” Caramon was surprised this stuff didn’t raise the dead.

  Raistlin drank it and finally closed his eyes. Drawing a deep breath, he leaned back against the headboard.

  “This is a strange place, Raist,” muttered Caramon. “I don’t like it. It’s too quiet.”

  The mage took another deep breath. “Yes. But it’s not a den of assassins and thieves as I’d expected. Did you see the people, my brother? Peasants, simple working folk, middle-aged farmers.”

  “Yeah,” said Caramon, running his fingers through his hair. “But it’s like Earwig said. Everyone sitting around talking in low voices. No singing or laughing. Maybe there’s a war,” he added hopefully. He’d like that. Plain and simple. Good old bashing the other’s guy’s brains out.

  “No, I don’t think so. I was eavesdropping on the conversations in the other room before you came blundering over and distracted me.”

  “Sorry. I thought you were sick. I didn’t know-”

  Raistlin went on softly, as if he hadn’t heard the interruption, as if talking to himself. “The people are terrified, Caramon.”

  “Yeah? What of? Assassins?”

  “No. Their cats have disappeared.”

  Chapter 3

  The twins descended the stairs from their room on the second floor, Raistlin leaning on both his brother and the staff, the black wood resounding hollowly. Moving around the huge open fire in the main hall, they went to the dining room. But before Caramon could enter, Raistlin stopped him, drawing his hood back to expose one ear.

  The fighter recognized this signal-a sign the twins had developed over the years-and quickly ducked back around the corner of the doorway before any of the patrons could notice him. He cocked his ear, listening, hoping to discover what his brother found so interesting. Voices wafted like mist from the room.

  “Tis the work of evil, I say!”

  “Aye, it’s true!”

  “I’ve lived eighty years,” interjected an old man, “and I’ve seen nothing like it! Always we’ve taken care of the cats, as the legend says. And now they’ve left us! Doom will fall on our heads!”

  “Probably the work of some foul wizard.”

  “Never did trust them.”

  “Yeah! Burn ’em all up, I say! Like in the old days.”

  “What do you think will happen to Mereklar, then, old man?”

  “Mereklar? I fear for the world!”

  “I heard there’re no cats at all left in the city,” stated a man, wearing a farmer’s smock and broad-brimmed hat. “Is that true?”

  “There are a few left, a hundred or so, perhaps,” said the old man.

  “A hundred where there used to be a thousand,” added another.

  “And their numbers dwindle daily.”

  Everyone began to talk at once, adding rumors they’d heard. They were beginning to work themselves into a frenzy.

  Caramon came out from his hiding place to join his brother. He plucked Raistlin’s sleeve.

  “I think we’ve wandered into an asylum,” he whispered loudly. “These people are crazy! To get this worked up over a bunch of cats!”

  “Hush, Caramon. You should take this matter seriously. I would guess that this has much to do with the job we are seeking.”

  “We’re being hired to look for lost cats?” Caramon began to laugh, his booming baritone roaring through the inn. Everyone fell silent, glaring at the brothers with baleful looks.

  “Remember, Caramon!” Raistlin closed his thin-fingered hand over his brother’s thick arm. “Someone tried to kill us over it, as well.”

  Caramon’s laugh sobered quickly. The two entered the room. Their presence was not welcome. They were outsiders, intruding on a fear they could not understand. No one said a word, no one bade them sit down.

  “Hey! Raistlin! Caramon! Over here!” Earwig’s shrill voice split the sullen silence.

  The twins walked to the back of the room. The inn’s patrons cast furtive glances at the mage, and there was whispering and shaking of heads and glowering scowls. Raistlin ignored them all with a disdainful air and a slight sneering curl of his lips.

  Caramon helped his brother sit down and get as comfortable as possible on the hard, wooden bench. The warrior beckoned to one of the barmaids, who-after a nod from Yost-came over to the table.

  Caramon sniffed at the air and wrinkled his nose, not liking much what he smelled cooking.

  “Rabbit stew,” said the woman. “Take it or leave it.”

  “I’ll take it,” said Caramon, thinking regretfully of Otik’s spiced potatoes at the Inn of the Last Home. He looked at his brother. Raistlin covered his mouth with a cloth and shook his head.

  “My brother will have some white wine. Do you want something, Earwig?”

  “Oh, no, thanks, Caramon. I ate already. You see, there was this plate of stew, just sitting there. My mother always said it was a sin to waste food. ‘People in Solamnia are starving,’ she’d say. So, to help the starving people in Solamnia, I ate the stew. Although just how that helps them I’m not certain. Do you know, Caramon?”

  Caramon didn’t. The barmaid hurried off and returned shortly with a plate of food and a mug of ale, which she slapped down in front of Caramon, and a goblet of wine for Raistlin.

  Caramon plunged into his dinner with gusto, slurping and chewing and shoveling rapidly. Earwig observed him in round-eyed admiration. Raistlin was watching with disgust when suddenly the mage’s attention focused on Caramon’s half-empty plate.

  “Let me see that!” he said, snatching it away.

  “Hey! I wasn’t finished! I-”

  “You are now,” said Raistlin coldly, scrappin
g the rest of the food onto the floor.

  “What is it? Show me!” Earwig scrambled around to sit beside the mage.

  “It’s a poem,” said Raistlin, gazing at the surface of the plate with interest.

  “A poem!” Caramon growled. “You ruined my dinner for a poem!”

  Raistlin read it to himself, then handed it over to his brother.

  It is written, the land will know five ages,

  but the last shall not come if darkness

  succeeds, coming through the gate.

  Darkness sends its agents, stealthy

  and black, to find the gate, to

  be there when the time arrives

  The cats alive are the turning

  stone, they decide the fate,

  darkness or light, in the

  city that stands before

  the first gods.

  “Well?” said Raistlin.

  “Cats, again,” answered Caramon, handing the plate back.

  “Yes,” Raistlin murmured, “cats again.”

  “Do you understand it?”

  “Not entirely. Up to now, there have been four ages-the Age of Dreams, the Age of Light, the Age of Might, and the Age of Darkness, which we are in now. A new age coming …”

  “But not ‘if darkness succeeds,’ ” said Caramon, reading the plate upside down.

  “Yes. And ‘the cats alive are the turning stone.’ Interesting, my brother. Very interesting.” Raistlin placed the plate carefully down on the table, his lips pressed together in thought.

  “Wait a minute!” said Earwig. “I just remembered something.”

  Leaping up, he ran across to another table, grabbed hold of an empty plate, and brought it to the mage. “Look! Another poem! I found it when I’d finished my dinner.”

  He plunked the plate down in front of Caramon, and, seeing the fighter absorbed in reading it, appropriated his mug of ale.

  It is written,

  the Lord of Cats

  will come, aiding his

  dominion, leading only

  for them, following no other

  the agents for one and three.

  The cats alive are the turning stone,

  they decide the fate, darkness or light,

  in the city that stands before the first gods.

  “ ‘The city that stands before the first gods.’ ” Raistlin repeated, taking the plate from Caramon and reading it again and again. He was always interested in stories and rumors of the first gods, the gods he truly believed still existed. “In all our travels, my brother, we’ve never come across anything like this! Perhaps here I’ll find the answers I seek!”

  “Uh, Raist!” Caramon said warningly.

  The other patrons had fallen deathly silent and were staring at the brothers and the kender with dark and angry expressions. A few were rising to their feet.

  “What do you strangers think you’re doing? Mocking the prophecy?” demanded one, his hand clenched into a fist.

  “We’re just reading it, that’s all,” began Caramon, face flushing. “Is that a crime?”

  “It could be. And you won’t like the punishment.”

  Caramon rose to his feet. He was one against twenty, but the big warrior was undaunted by the odds. He could see, out of the corner of his eye, his brother’s hand glide swiftly to the pouch Raistlin carried at his side-a pouch whose contents were as magical and mysterious as the man who used them.

  “A fight?” asked Earwig, jumping up and down. The kender grabbed his hoopak. “Is there going to be a barroom brawl? I’ve never been in a barroom brawl before! Boy, Cousin Tas was right about you guys!”

  “There’s no fighting in my establishment,” cried a stern voice. “Come now, Hamish and you, too, Bartoc, settle down.”

  The innkeeper placed himself between Caramon and the crowd, making placating gestures with his hands. The men calmed down, resuming their seats and their gloomy conversation. Caramon, slowly and warily, returned to the table.

  “I’m sorry, sirs,” Yost said to the twins. “We’re not usually this unfriendly, but there are some bad things happening in Mereklar.”

  “What happened to the barroom brawl?” Earwig demanded.

  “Shut up.” Caramon grabbed the kender and stuffed him into his seat.

  “Bad things-such as the cats disappearing?” asked Raistlin.

  Yost stared at the mage in awe. “How did you know, sir?”

  Raistlin shrugged.

  “But then, you’re a wizard, after all,” continued the innkeeper with a sidelong glance. “I guess you know a lot of things the rest of us don’t.”

  “And that’s why everyone’s ready to leap down our throats?” asked Caramon, pointing over his shoulder with his right thumb at the others in the inn.

  “It’s just that our cats mean as much to us as his word of honor means to a Knight of Solomnia.”

  Thinking back to his friend Sturm, Caramon was impressed. The Knights of Solomnia would willingly die to uphold their honor.

  “Sit down, sir-”

  “Yost. Everyone just calls me Yost.”

  “Sit down … um, Yost,” said Raistlin in his soft voice, “and tell us about the cats.”

  Nervously, glancing back again at the other patrons, Yost took a seat opposite Earwig.

  Caramon reached for his ale, only to discover that the kender had finished it.

  “I’ll have the girl bring you something else to drink,” Yost said.

  Caramon looked at his brother, who shook his head, reminding the warrior of the depleted state of their funds. The warrior heaved a sigh, “No, thanks. I’m not thirsty.”

  Smiling, the innkeeper gestured at the barmaid. “On the house,” he said. “Maggie, bring us glasses and my own private stock.”

  The barmaid returned, bearing a dust-covered brown bottle that Caramon recognized as distilled spirits. Yost poured a glass for himself and one for the warrior. Raistlin declined.

  “You want some?” Yost asked the kender. “It’ll curl your hair.”

  “It will?” Earwig asked, gazing at the mixture in wonder. The kender ran a hand over his topknot of hair, his pride and joy. “Uh, I guess not, then. I like my hair the way it is.”

  Yost continued, “In Mereklar and the area around the city, we believe that our cats will one day save the world.”

  Caramon sniffed at the drink he had just been offered and gingerly took a small sip. He grimaced at the taste, then his eyes widened with delight at the pleasant burning sensation warming his insides. He belched and took a larger gulp.

  “How?” asked Raistlin, glancing at his brother and frowning.

  “Nobody knows for sure, but we all believe it will happen. Our heritage is based on it.” Yost rolled the liquor on his tongue and swallowed. “That’s why cats are always welcome in any home in Mereklar. It’s against the law to harm a cat, punishable by death. Not that anyone would.” The innkeeper gazed around sadly. “I used to have thirty or so here, myself. They’d be walking around, jumping on your shoulder, curling up in your lap. The choicest bits on everyone’s plates were theirs. The sound of their purring was so soothing-like. And now”-he shook his head-“they’re gone.”

  “And you’ve no idea where?” Raistlin persisted.

  “No, sir. We’ve looked. And there’s not a trace of ’em. Another drink, friend?” Yost held up the bottle. “I can see you enjoy this.”

  “I do!” said Caramon, tears in his eyes and a huskiness in his throat. “What’s it called?”

  Dwarf spirits. Hard to come by these days, since the dwarfs have closed up Thorbardin.” Yost turned to Raistlin. “You seem unusually interested in our business, wizard. May I ask why?”

  “Show him the paper, Caramon.”

  “Huh? Oh, yeah.” Fumbling beneath his leather harness, the warrior brought out the parchment they’d found at the crossroads and exhibited it to Yost.

  “Ah, yes! The council voted to offer a reward to anyone who could find our cats-”
>
  “It doesn’t say so,” Caramon pointed out.

  “No, well.” Yost flushed, embarrassed. “We know that to the world outside, our love for our cats seems kind of strange. We didn’t figure outsiders would understand until they got here.”

  “If they got here,” murmured Raistlin, with an unpleasant smile.

  Yost glanced at the mage sharply. Not certain if he had heard him correctly or not, he decided to ignore the statement.

  “The idea of the reward came from the city’s Councillor, Lady Shavas. If you’re interested in the job, she’s the one you should talk to.”

  “We intend to do so,” said Raistlin, glaring at Caramon, who was helping himself to another drink of the potent brew.

  Earwig yawned. “Are you going to tell us any more stories? What about this Lord of the Cats? Do you know him?”

  “Ah, that.” Yost stared into his drink. He appeared highly uncomfortable. “The Lord of Cats is the king of the cats, the deity who tells them what to do.” Pausing, taking a small swallow, he went on, “The only thing is, though, the stories aren’t clear as to whether he’ll help the world or destroy it.”

  “So you believe in the Lord of the Cats?” Caramon asked.

  “We believe in his existence,” Yost said, glancing around nervously as if he feared he was being watched. “We just don’t know what motivates him.”

  Caramon reached for the bottle. Raistlin’s hand shot out and closed over his brother’s wrist.

  “Where’s the gate of which the prophecy speaks?” the mage asked.

  “We don’t know much about the prophecy, I’m afraid,” said Yost. “It was found long ago, right after the Cataclysm. Maybe if we did, we’d know what was going on. Still, if you’re interested, I’ve heard that Lady Shavas has books that tell about the Lord of the Cats and the prophecy and some of these other things. They’re written in the your language-the language of magic, though there hasn’t been a mage in these parts for over a hundred years. One was never wanted, if you get my meaning.”

  The bartender stood up and prepared to leave, taking his bottle with him, much to Caramon’s disappointment.