Kevin Stein
Brothers Majere

To Bertram, Library of Palanthas

From Dalamar, Tower of High Sorcery, Palanthas

Greetings,

First, sir, allow me to offer my apologies for startling you and the young scribe when we encountered each other in the great library. I am so accustomed to traveling the paths of sorcery that I forget others are not used to my sudden appearances. I trust that the young scribe is, by now, fully recovered from his unfortunate tumble down the stairs.

My messenger (I hope you are not too put off by its rather ghastly appearance) holds in its "hand" the manuscript which you requested. The material of which I spoke – i.e., a collection of notations written by Raistlin Majere himself concerning his early life – cannot, I am afraid, be delivered to the library. In accordance with his secretive nature, the Shalafi had cast spells of confusion over his books. These spells would not only make it difficult for you to read the books, Bertram, but might actually cause you serious harm.

I have taken it upon myself, therefore, to rewrite the account. All information is complete and accurate to detail as far as I was able to determine from Raistlin's notes and Caramon Majere's memory. I searched for the ken-der,.Earwig Lockpicker, who was also a companion during several adventures, but I was unable to find him. (Needless to say, I did not look very hard!)

The material is divided into two parts. The first and shorter of the pieces is titled "Raistlin and the Knight of Solamnia." This piece is important in that it provides us with information on the kender. Earwig, and how he came to join up with the twins. The story concerns the Shalafi's encounter with a stiff-necked knight, whose pride very nearly gets them all killed. (Considering our current good relations with the knights, you might think twice before publishing this story in Solamnia.)

The second story, which I have titled "Brothers Ma-, jere," is interesting for a number of reasons, particularly for the account of the mysterious and fascinating personage met by the twins. As you know, there has been considerable discussion among the scholars of the land concerning this "demi-god." Is he real, or is he merely a creature of legend and myth? I remember discussing the subject with Raistlin, and I wondered at the time at the Shalifi's knowing smile. True to form, he never told me that he knew, firsthand, the truth about "Bast."

That Raistlin was interested in Bast himself is best indicated by the fact that he went out of his way to collect other tales concerning the dark-skinned "thief." These can be forwarded to you when I have time to break the spells guarding them.

Next, about your request for information regarding the chronological order of the stories in your collection, I offer you the following for your records. (The information is based both on my notes and on discussions with Caramon Majere.)

After the separation of the Companions at the Inn of the Last Home, Raistlin and Caramon left immediately on their journey to the Tower of High Sorcery. Raistlin took the test, with results that have now become legend/

The twins then wandered in the magical Wayreth Forest for perhaps as long as a month before being allowed to leave. It is during this period of time that popular myth would have us believe Raistlin encountered the strange woman who would, unbeknowst to the Shalafi, bear him a child.3 (By the way, in regard to this rumor, I can give you no information. The stories about this liaison did not begin to circulate until several years after Raistlin's death. I find nothing in his notes pertaining to such a liaison.)

Upon escaping Wayreth Forest, the twins returned to Solace, where Raistlin spent several months seeking a cure for his malady. He studied and became expert in the sciences of alchemy and herbal lore and gained greatly in knowledge that would serve him all of his life. Unfortunately, his efforts failed to improve his health. Funds running low, the brothers were forced to leave Solace to seek their fortunes.

Caramon recalls that they intended to cross New Sea, but he is unclear as to why they were traveling to such wild and dangerous lands. Perhaps he himself did not know. Marginal notes in one of the Shalafi's alchemy texts indicate that Raistlin may have been continuing his search for some magical life-giving elixir.

During this time, Raistlin was also hunting for a true cleric. I venture to speculate that he was not seeking one out of a high-minded search for truth, but – again – in hopes that he would find someone to heal him. (It is, however, interesting to note that, four years later, when he meets Goldmoon, he tells her that her healing powers will not help him. What happened to him in that intervening time period to teach him this harsh lesson? Perhaps, in further explorations through his texts, we will discover the answer.)

Undoubtedly it is due to his bitter disappointment in being unable to find a true cleric that he continues to ferret out and expose charlatans. One of these is the infamous fraud of Larnish {mentioned briefly in this volume). It is shortly after this encounter that Raistlin and Caramon met the Knight of Solamnia and rid Death's Keep of its curse. Continuing on their way to New Sea, they enter Mereklar.

This adventure is not the end of the brothers' journey-ings. They would travel another four years before the outbreak of the War of the Lance. My teaching, as well as the work involved in being Head of the Order of Black Robes, leaves me little time to pursue my research but, hopefully, at some later date, I will be able to decipher the remainder of the Shalafi's notes. Like you, Bertram, I must admit that I find the subject fascinating.

My Shalafi was undoubtedly the most skilled and powerful wizard who has ever lived. I am pleased that you are setting down the true facts concerning his life. It is my profound hope that future generations will remember and honor the tragedy and ultimate triumph of Raistlin Majere.

I hope that this is helpful to you. I trust the messenger will deliver it to you safely. (If he leaves any slime on the parchment, you may remove it with a solution of lemon water and vinegar.)

Please extend my greetings and respect to Aslinus.

* * *

The boy looked up from his play to see two strangers, standing at the crossroads, reading the sign. Keeping his eyes on them, the boy continued what he was doing – sailing a makeshift boat in a puddle. But when the larger and stronger of the two men – a warrior, by the number of weapons he carried – ripped the parchment off the post, the boy left the boat to sink slowly into the muddy water. Hidden by a scraggly shrub, the boy crept close to listen.

"Hey, Raist, look at this!" yelled the big man to the other, who stood only a few feet away.

The boy stared at this second man with intense interest. The child had never seen a mage before, he'd only heard about them in tales. He had no trouble recognizing a wizard, however, by his outlandish robes – their color red as blood – the mysterious pouches and feathered amulets that hung from the mage's simple rope belt, and a black wooden staff on which he leaned when he walked.

"Stop bellowing! I'm not deaf. What have you found?" the mage spoke irritably.

"It says… here, you read it." The warrior handecT over the notice. He watched as the mage studied it. "Well, what do you think? Unless, of course, it's outdated."

"This posting is recent. The parchment's not even weatherworn yet."

"Oh, yeah. So maybe this is what we're looking for, huh?"

"Fee negotiable." The mage frowned. "Still, that's better than nothing. The reward we earned for ending the curse of Death's Keep is nearly gone. We'll never be able to cross New Sea unless we have the means to hire a boat." He rolled up the parchment and thrust it in the sleeves of his robes.

The warrior sighed. "Another night sleeping on the ground?"

"We need to carefully conserve what little money we have."

"I guess. I could sure use a mug of ale, though."

"I've no doubt," said the mage sourly.

"You ever heard of this Mereklar place?" asked the warrior after a pause.

"No, have you?"

"Nope."

The mage looked from the signpost to the road it indicated. The road was muddy and overgrown with grass and weeds.

"It doesn't look as if many people have heard of it. I – "

"Whew! Here you are! Finally!"

The boy heard someone gasping in relief. Peering around the hedge, he saw a person, smaller in stature than the other two, pumping up the road as fast as his orange-stockinged legs would carry him.

A kender! recognized the boy and immediately clasped fast in his hand all his worldly possessions, which consisted of a half-eaten apple that had been lunch and a small, broken knife used for whittling boats.

Perhaps the branches of the bush rustled when the boy moved, because he was astonished and alarmed to see the mage suddenly turn his head and cast a piercing glance into the shrubs that concealed him. The boy froze. He'd never seen a face like that, not even in a dream. The mage's skin had a gold cast to it, and his eyes were golden, the pupils shaped like hourglasses.

Fortunately for the boy, the kender began to talk again.

"I thought I'd never catch up with you two! You left me behind by mistake. Why didn't you guys tell me you were taking off in the middle of the night? If I hadn't woken up and seen you two sneaking past my door, carrying your packs, I never would have known which way you were going! As it was, I had to take a moment to gather up all my things and then I had a dreadful time keeping up and once I lost you, but I have a special device that I use for finding my way and it showed me which path you took. Do you want to see it?" The kender began to fumble through innumerable pouches, spilling out various articles and objects into the street. "It's in here, somewhere…"

The warrior exchanged a long-suffering glance with the mage. "Uh, no, that's all right, Earmite – "

"Earwig!" corrected the kender indignantly.

"Uh, yeah. Sorry. Earwig Nosepicker, isn't it?"

"Lockpicker!" The kender jabbed the forked stick he was carrying into the ground for emphasis. "Lockpicker. A highly honored name among – "

"Come, Caramon," said the mage in a voice that would have chilled boiling water. "We must be going."

"Where are we headed?" asked the kender, cheerfully falling into step.

The mage came to a halt and fixed the kender with his strange eyes.

"We aren't headed anywhere."

The boy thought that anyone but a kender would have curled up and sunk into the ground under the mage's baleful stare. But the kender just gazed up at him solemnly.

"Oh, but you need me, Raistlin. You really do. Wasn't I a help to you in solving the mystery of Death's Keep? I was. You said so yourself. I gave you the clue that made you think the maiden was the reason for the curse. And Caramon never would have found his favorite dagger if it hadn't been for me – "

"I never would have lost it, if it hadn't been for you," muttered the warrior.

"And then Tasslehoff told me – You remember my cousin, Tasslehoff Burrfoot? Anyway, he told me that you always took him with you on your adventures and that he was always getting you out of trouble and since he's not around you should take me to do the same thing. And 1 can tell you lots of interesting stories, like the one about Dizzy Longtongue and the minotaur – "

"Enough!" The mage pulled his cowl farther down over his head, as if the cloth could shut out the monologue.

"Ah, let him come along, Raist," said the warrior. "It'd be company for us. You know we get bored, just talking to each other."

"I know I get bored just talking to you, my brother. But I do not think the situation will be alleviated by taking on a kender!"

The mage started off down the road, leaning heavily on his staff and walking slowly, as if he had just been through a recent illness.

"What did he say?" the kender asked, coming to walk beside the warrior.

"I'm not sure," said the warrior, shaking his head. "But I don't think it was a compliment."

"Oh, well," said the kender, twirling his forked stick in the air until it made a shrill, whistling sound. "I'm not much used to compliments anyway. Where did you say we were going?"

"Mereklar."

"Mereklar. Never heard of it," stated the kender happily.

The boy saw the three well on their way before he ran to an old, dilapidated inn that huddled in the woods near the crossroads. A man sat at a table, an untasted drink in his hand.

The boy went up to the man and told what he had seen.

"A warrior, a mage, and a kender. All three heading for Mereklar. And now that I've done what you wanted, where's my money?" the child demanded boldly. "You promised."

The man asked a few questions, wanting to know what color robes the mage was wearing and if the warrior appeared to be very old and battle-hardened.

"No," said the boy, considering. "He's only about the age of my big brother. Twenty or so if he's a day. But his weapons seemed well used. I don't think you'll pick him off so easily." of pipes – a haunting, eerie sound that reminded him of a time of everlasting pain, a time of torture and torment. Propping himself up on weak elbows from his red, tattered sleeping roll, he stared into the embers of the fire.

The dying coals only served to remind Raistlin of his ill health. How long had it been since he took the test? How much time had passed since the wizards in the Tower of High Sorcery had demanded this sacrifice in return for his magic? Months. Only months. Yet it seemed to him that he'd been suffering like this all his life.

Lying back down, Raistlin lifted his hands up in front of his face, examining the bones, veins, and sinews, barely discernible in the dimly lit grove. The firelight gave his flesh an unearthly reddish tinge, reflecting off his golden skin – the gold skin he had earned in his gambit for personal power, gold skin he had earned fighting for his life.

Smiling grimly, Raistlin clenched his hand into a fist. He'd won. He'd been victorious. He had defeated them all.

But his moment of triumph was short-lived. He began to cough uncontrollably, the spasms shaking and convulsing him like a battered puppet.

The pipes played on while Raistlin managed to catch his breath. He fumbled at his waist to find a small burlap bag filled with herbs. Holding this over his nose and mouth, he breathed the sickly sweet scent of crushed leaves and boiled twigs. The spasms eased, and Raistlin dared let himself hope that this time he'd found a cure. He refused to believe he would be this feeble all of his life.

The herbs left a bitter taste on his lips. He stashed the pungent bag away in a purse under his cloth belt, which was a darker red than the rest of his robes from constant use and wear. He didn't look for the blood that was beginning to slowly dry on the medicine pouch. He knew it would be there.

Breathing slowly, Raistlin forced himself to relax. His eyes closed. He imagined the many and varied lines of power running through his life – the glowing, golden weave of threads of his magic, his mind, his soul. He held his life in his hands. He was the master of his own destiny.

Raistlin listened to the pipes again. They did not play the eerie, unnatural music he thought he had heard upon waking – the music of the dark elf, the music he dreamed about in his worst nightmares since his indoctrination into the higher orders of sorcery. Instead it was the shrill, lively music of an inconsiderate kender.

Throwing off the heavy blankets piled on top of him, Raistlin shivered in the cold evening air. He clutched his staff with hands eager to feel the smooth wood once again safely in their grip, and pulled himself upright.

"Shirak" Raistlin said softly.

Power flowed from his spirit into the staff, mingling with the magic already housed in the black-wood symbol of the mage's victory. A soft white light beamed from the crystal clutched in a dragon's claw atop the staff.

As soon as the light flooded the grove, the music stopped abruptly. Earwig looked up in surprise to see the red-hooded figure of the magician looming over him.

"Oh, hi, Raistlin!" The kender grinned.

"Earwig," said the mage softly, "I'm trying to sleep."

"Well, of course, you are, Raistlin," answered the kender. "It's the middle of the night."

"But I can't sleep, Earwig, because of the noise."

"What noise?" The kender looked around the campsite with interest.

Raistlin reached out his gold-skinned hand and snatched the pipe from Earwig's grasp. He held it up in front of the kender 's nose.

"Oh," said Earwig meekly. 'That noise."

Raistlin tucked the pipes into the sleeve of his robes, turned, and started back to his bed.

"I can play you a lullaby," suggested Earwig, leaping to his feet and trotting along behind the mage. "If you give me back my pipes, that is. Or I could sing one for you – "

Raistlin turned and stared at the kender. The firelight flickered in the hourglass eyes.

"Or maybe not," said Earwig, slightly daunted.

But a kender never stayed daunted for long. "It's really boring around here," he added, keeping up with the mage. "I thought being on night watch would be fun, and it was for a while, because I kept expecting something to jump out of the woods^and attack us since Caramon said that was why we had to keep watch, but nothing has jumped out and attacked us and it's really getting boring."

"Dulak" Raistlin whispered, starting to cough again. The light from the globe dimmed and died. The mage sank down onto his sleeping mat, his tired legs barely supporting him.

"Here, Raistlin, let me help you," offered Earwig, spreading out the blankets. The kender stood, gazing down at the mage hopefully. "Would you make the staff light up again, Raistlin?"

The mage hunched his thin body beneath the heavy quilt.

"Could I have my pipes back?"

Raistlin closed his eyes.

Earwig heaved a gusty sigh, his gaze going to the sleeve of the mage's robes into which he'd seen his pipes disappear.

"Good night, Raistlin. I hope you feel better in the morning."

The mage felt a small hand pat his arm solicitously. The kender trotted away, small feet making little noise in the dew-wet grass.

Just as Raistlin was finally drifting off to sleep, he heard, once again, the shrill sound of the pipes.

Caramon awoke hours before the dawn, just in time for his watch. The companions had agreed to set two guards. Earwig taking the first watch, Caramon the second. Caramon preferred to take the last watch of the night, known as "the dead man's watch" because it was a time when there was the greatest possibility of trouble.

"Earwig, turn in," said Caramon, only to find his order had already been obeyed.

The kender lay fast asleep, a set of pipes clutched tightly in his hand.

Caramon shook his head. What could you expect from a kender? By nature, kender were not afraid of anything, living or dead. It was extremely difficult, therefore, to impress upon a kender the need to set a guard on the campsite.

Not that the warrior believed they were in any danger; the lands around them were peaceful and calm. But Caramon could no more have gone to his rest without setting a watch then he could have gone for a day without eating. It was one reason – at least so he had told his brother – that they needed Earwig to accompany them on their journey.

The warrior settled himself beneath a tree. He enjoyed this time of night. He liked to see the moons and stars fade into morning's first light. The constellations turned and wheeled and faced each other – the platinum dragon Paladine, the five-headed dragon Takhisis, between Ihem the god Gilean, the symbol of balance. Few others on Krynn believed in these ancient gods anymore, or even remembered the names of their constellations. Caramon had learned them from his brother. Sometimes the warrior wondered if Raistlin believed in the despised gods. If he did, he never mentioned it or worshipped them openly. Probably a good thing, Caramon reflected. This day and age, that type of faith could get you killed.

Caramon connected the bright points, his imagination drawing lines and curves, forming the stars into symbols of good and evil. He found the twins' namesake – the god Majere, called the Single Rose by the elves (accord ing to his friend, Tanis), the Mantis by the Knights of So-lamnia (according to Sturm). The constellation lay deep in the pool of darkness overhead. Caramon knew from Raistlin that it was supposed to grant stability of thought, peace of mind. The heavens did give him a feeling of stability, of lasting equilibrium in the world. No matter what happened, the constellations would always be there.

Giving the stars a salute, Caramon heaved himself to his feet. Time to work. Moving silently, careful not to awake his sleeping brother, Caramon piled his weapons at his feet and began giving each a cursory examination. There were three swords, all aged and battle worn. One was a bastard sword, also called a hand-and-a-half sword, because it could be used with either one or two hands. The hilt was dirty, blackened with blood. The cross-guard – a simple, unadorned metal bar running across the hilt where it met the four-foot blade – was notched and cut from parrying the attacks of countless opponents.

The other swords were smaller: an old, worn broadsword with a counterweight at the bottom and a main-gauche – a one and a half foot long parrying dagger with a large basket hilt and wide blade. These were the arms of a skilled warrior, of one who never sacrificed his honor to win a confrontation. They were old and trusted friends.

Caramon's other weapons were the spoils of war, the gifts of the dead. One, two, or even three dagger blades jutted out from hilts carved into the likenesses of demons and dragons. There was a double-edged stiletto, its blade curved like a snake, and several small throwing weapons such as darts and hand-axes. Other weapons included a brass cestus, punch-daggers, ring blades. All these had been taken from enemies who no longer needed them.

Taking out a whetstone and cloth, the warrior began cleaning his weapons. Deciding to do his swords first, he sharpened them with the stone, wiping them down with a cloth he wet from the waterskin. He lifted the blades, inspecting them by Solinari's silver light, holding each one up to his eye to make sure the blade was straight, bending it with his bare hands when it didn't meet with his satisfaction. He looked for cracks or dents that meant the sword had to be thrown away lest it break in the middle of a battle. There were none. Caramon, an expert at all forms of personal combat, never allowed his tools to wear, knowing full well that preventive maintenance could save his life.

He put away his gear, sheathing the swords, or strapping them back onto his huge, muscular form. His arms could bend the thickest bars, lift the heaviest weight, move the largest obstacle. Veins stood out against the definition of muscles as firm as iron plates. The thinning leather thongs that held in place Caramon's unadorned metal hauberk creaked when he breathed deeply, and the thick armored greaves he wore barely covered his lower legs. Strong and powerful, Caramon was born to fight, even as his brother was born to magic. It was difficult for most people to believe the two were twins.

The sky was clear, the stars shone brightly, with no hint of clouds.

"Tomorrow should be a fine day," Caramon said to himself, stretching. He scratched his neck with his left hand while rubbing his face with his right. He was cold.

Earwig had let the fire die down until nothing was left but smoldering embers.

Sighing heavily, muttering imprecations on the head of the careless kender, Caramon began to walk the perimeter of the grove, searching for fallen limbs and sticks. Raistlin would need the warmth of a fire when he awoke. He would require flames to heat the herb mixture on which he relied to ease his cough.

Caramon was disappointed to find the immediate area devoid of any useful wood. Giving a backward glance at his brother still shrouded in his coverings, the warrior traveled deeper into the forest, hoping to spot some fuel without having to move too far from his companions.

He had been away from the camp fifteen minutes when he heard a strange sound back near the grove. At first, he thought it was the movement of some forest predator, but then he heard other movement – stealthy, furtive.

Caramon dodged behind a huge oak, quietly drawing the large bastard sword and the smaller, heavy main-gauche. Listening carefully, the warrior thought he could hear whispered signals being passed – signals of caution, signals to strike as one. He edged his way back to the clearing. The forest provided excellent cover, the same cover his opponents had used to hide their presence earlier.

"Five of the bastards," Caramon counted to himself as he crouched in the shadow of another oak tree.

He heard again the sounds of their movements, learned their methods as he stalked them, listening for the whistles of the commander, the replies of his followers.

He considered sheathing his parrying dagger and using a throwing weapon, perhaps a dart or knife, to remove the intruders one by one. But as he neared the edge of the clearing, he lost all thought of strategy.

Solinari and Lunitari lit the scene in the grove, the silver and red light mixing to give double shadows that moved and swayed as the intruders did.

Three men holding war spears stood over Raistlin's sleeping roll. Two others stood beside Earwig.

"These fools will never reach Mereklar," said one, the tallest of the three, wearing a black hood over his head. Raising his spear, he plunged it into Raistlin's body.

Bursting from the woods, roaring in outrage, Caramon dashed forward. He struck down one of the thieves standing over Earwig with the bastard sword as he stabbed the other through the stomach with the main-gauche. He left his parrying dagger in the thief's body and gripped his sword in both hands. Blood pounded in his ears, drowning out all other sounds as he raced after the remaining three bandits.

One raised his spear to parry, but Caramon's down-stroke shattered the haft and sank deep into his enemy, who died with a look of surprise on his face. But the blow cost Caramon.

The second leaped to stab the big warrior in the back, and the big man could not turn in time to block the attack. It didn't matter. His brother was dead, his life was over anyway. Sobbing, Caramon saw, out of the corner of his eye, the blade's flashing descent-It halted in midair. The thug went stiff as a corpse.

Caramon stared, amazed, nearly dropping his sword. Then he heard softly chanted words coming from the edge of the forest and saw Raistlin emerge from the shadows. Caramon reached out an unsteady, trembling hand toward his brother

"Raist?" he whispered.

Raistlin stopped him with a glance.

"What's the matter, Caramon? You look as if you'd seen a ghost."

Caramon let his hand sink back to his side. "I thought for a minute I had, Raist! I thought you were dead!" The big man could barely talk for his relief.

The mage's face, shadowed by his red hood, showed no hint of emotion.

"Small thanks to you I wasn't!" He walked over to look with cold curiosity at the remaining attacker. The thief's limbs were stiffened by sorcery. He was unable to move, unable to overcome the irresistible will of magic.

"I went to get wood," mumbled Caramon, shamefacedly. "I honestly didn't think there was any danger. I haven't heard word of thieves around these parts. And the fire was out and I knew you'd be chilled to the bone, and then there's that stuff you drink – "

"Never mind!" Raistlin impatiently cut short his brother's explanations. "No harm was done. You know what a light sleeper I am. I heard them coming from some distance away." The mage paused, carefully scrutinizing their prisoner. "A bit unusual for professional thieves, don't you think, Caramon?"

"Yeah, as a matter of fact," said the warrior, scratching his head. "They did seem sort of clumsy."

"A pity the leader escaped."

"Did he?" Caramon growled and glanced around.

"The man with the black hood. He ran off the moment you burst into the grove. I think a conversation with him might have been quite interesting. Did you hear his words before he struck what he thought was my limp and unresisting form?"

Caramon thought back, past blood and fear and grief, and heard in his memory, "These fools will never reach Mereklar!"

"I'll be damned," said the big warrior, stunned, the implication dawning on him.

"Yes, my brother. Not thieves, but hired killers."

"I could go after him."

"You would never find him. He is on home ground, and we are not. Let's have a look at what we've captured. Shirakl"

The magical light of the staff gleamed. Raistlin held it close to the assassin while his brother grasped the greasy,

Bnotrjens Majene leather helmet the man wore and yanked it off him. The face that stared back at them had been frozen by Rais-tlin's spell just at the time he was prepared to strike down Caramon. The killer's mouth was twisted in a grin of bloodlust. He had obviously been enjoying the idea of knifing a man in the back.

"I'm going to lift the spell. Hold onto him," Raistlin instructed.

Caramon grabbed the man, encircling the scrawny neck with his huge arm, a dagger held to the assassin's throat.

At a movement of Raistlin's gold-skinned hand, the man's body jerked. Finding himself free of the enchantment, the attacker attempted briefly to get away. Caramon tightened his grip slightly, the dagger pricking the killer's skin.

"I won't run!" the man whined, going limp. "Just don't let him do no more of that magic on me!"

"1 won't… if you answer a few questions," said Raistlin in his soft, whispering voice.

"Sure, I'll telf you anything! Just don't do that magic stuff again!"

"Who hired you to kill us?"

"I dunno. A fella in a black hood. 1 never saw his face."

"His name?"

"I dunno. He didn't tell us."

"Where did you meet him?"

"In an inn near Mereklar. The Black Cat. Last night. He said he had a job for us. He said we was just goin' to rob you! He didn't say nothing about killin'!"

"You're lying," said Raistlin coolly. "You were hired to murder us in our sleep."

"No! I swear! I was – "

"I'm tired of listening to his babbling. Shut him up, Caramon."

"Permanently?" suggested Caramon, his hand engulfing the assassin's throat.

Raistlin appeared to consider the matter. The thief kept silent, his face now twisted into an expression of terror.

"No, I have another use for him. Hold him tight."

Raistlin pulled the hood back from over his head. The twin moons' shimmering light reflected into his eyes – the eyes with the pupils of hourglasses, the eyes that saw everything decay, wither, and die. It glistened off the golden skin and the prematurely white hair that looked ghastly on a young man of twenty-one. Slowly, Raistlin approached the thief.

The man screamed and struggled desperately in Cara-mon's tight grip.

Reaching out one gold-skinned hand, Raistlin placed five fingers on the thief's forehead. The man writhed beneath the mage's touch and began to howl.

"Shut up," Caramon grunted, "and listen to my brother!"

"When you see the man in the black hood, you will tell him that my brother and I are coming to Mereklar and that we will not rest until we have found him. Do you understand that?"

"Yes! Yes!" cried the man pitifully.

"And now I put this curse upon you. The next time you take a life in cold blood, the ghost of the murdered man will rise up and follow you. By day it will dog your steps. By night it will hound your dreams. You will do anything to try to rid yourself of it, but to no avail. The ghost will drive you to madness and, finally, at the end, it will cause you to turn your foul knife on yourself."

Raistlin removed his hand. "Let him go, Caramon."

The big man released the assassin, who fell to his knees. He remained crouched on the ground, glancing furtively at the brothers. Caramon made a threatening gesture with his dagger, and the man leaped to his feet and dashed, panic-stricken, into the forest. For long minutes after, they could hear him crashing into trees and blundering into bushes.

"That was a horrible curse," said Caramon, awed. "I didn't know you could cast those kind of spells on people."

"I can't," said Raistlin, then began to cough, doubling over with the spasms that racked his thin body.

He held out his arm to his brother, who gently took it and guided the mage back to his blankets.

"You mean… there's not really a curse on him?" asked Caramon, confused. He assisted his twin to lie down.

"Oh, there is a curse on him," said Raistlin, when he could speak again. "But I didn't cast it." The mage's thin lips parted in a slight smile. "He will do that himself. Don't just stand there gaping at me! I'm chilled to the bone. Go gather more wood. I will keep the staff lighted until you have built the fire."

Caramon shook his head, not understanding.

Going to pick up the wood he had dropped during his attack on the killers, the warrior almost fell over Earwig's sleeping roll. In the excitement, he had forgotten the kender. Caramon remembered the assassins standing over Earwig, their spears held high. Kneeling down, the warrior put his hand on the small, blanket-covered form.

"Earwig?" Caramon said worriedly.

From the depths of the blanket came a yawning sound, a stretching motion, and eventually a head popped out of the top. Looking around in sleepy confusion in the brightening early morning light, the sound-sleeping kender saw the hacked and bloodied corpses lying on the ground, broken weapons scattered about, the grass torn and churned by trampling feet.

Earwig's mouth dropped open. His eyes bulged. He looked from Raistlin to Caramon wildly and back again. The kender threw back his head and began to wail.

"It's all right. Earwig," said Caramon soothingly. "Don't cry. You're safe. The killers are gone."

"I know!" cried Earwig, flinging himself on the ground and kicking his feet in the sod. "Don't rub it in!"

"What?" demanded the warrior, startled. "What's the matter, then?"

"How could you, Caramon?" sobbed Earwig. "I thought we were friends! A fight – and you let me sleep through the whole thing!"

Ditokc, and Caramon's optimistic prediction proved correct: it was, indeed, a fine day. The temperature rose to a comfortable level, warm enough for walking, but still cool enough to be pleasant. The sun, bright in a sky that was clear of clouds, clear of chaos, shone down upon the companions.

The dead bodies of the would-be assassins still lay in the clearing. Earwig, to make up for having missed last night's action, was occupied in searching the bodies, "looking for some clue to tell us who these people were," as he put it. In one of the thieves' pockets he found a broach made from strands of gold woven together to look like rope. Opening the broach by a hidden catch only a kender would have discovered, Earwig found inside a collection of miniature musical instruments made of silver, bone, and ebony, perfectly detailed, waiting to be played by a tiny orchestra.

Closing the medallion and tossing it onto a blanket with the other "treasure," Earwig went over to another body and saw three rings on the dead brigand's hands, each of gold and glittering with diamonds, sparkling in the morning's light. But what caught Earwig's attention was a mysterious twist of wire that had fallen from the thief's pocket.

The kender picked up the looped metal that twisted around and back into itself with no apparent purpose, with no specific form. Shaking the wire, he heard a small sound come from within – a sound of glass rattling against metal. He held it up to the light and saw a bead in the center of the coils. Earwig gazed at it for many minutes, fascinated by this mysterious object, until he grew bored and added it to his collection.

The kender went from body to body, collecting gold and diamonds and other precious things, holding them in his hand, feeling their weight and shape, only to toss them aside, forgotten, as he reached down to pick up an old writing quill with a bright silver tip, a piece of purple glass, and a wood carving of an eagle, no bigger than the middle of his palm. Worth and values set by other races mean nothing to kender. Curiosity makes them desire anything that enchants their eye, regardless of what they already hold in their hands.

"Well, did you find anything?" Caramon asked.

"That's it," said Earwig proudly, pointing at the blanket. "Well, aren't you going to look at it?" he asked, noting Caramon's hesitation.

"I guess so," said the big man heavily, starting to kneel down. "But it shivers my skin to paw through posses sions of the dead."

"Why? You took their weapons."

"That's different."

"How? 1 don't understand – "

"It just is! All right?" Caramon glared at the kender.

"You are too squeamish, Brother," said Raistlin in his soft voice, coming up to stand behind them. "Move over. You're blocking the light. 1 have no superstitious fear of a dead man's personal belongings."

The mage bent down. His slender, delicate hands ran lightly over the objects scattered before him. Some he lifted and inspected with an expert eye. Earwig watched eagerly.

"Those are the biggest diamonds I've ever seen. Did you ever see any that big, Raistlin?"

"Glass," remarked the mage, tossing the ring aside in contempt.

Earwig appeared slightly crestfallen, but cheered up again. "That golden chain is quite heavy, isn't it, Raistlin?"

"It should be. It's lead. What's this?"

The mage lifted a silver charm between thumb and forefinger. Holding it in his palm, he exhibited it to his brother. Caramon, looking at it, made a face.

"Ugh! Who would wear that?"

"I would!" said Earwig, staring at the trinket longingly.

The charm was shaped into the likeness of a cat's skull, with tiny rubies in the eye sockets.

"Which one was wearing this?" Raistlin asked.

Earwig thought. "None of them. I found it in the grass, over there." He pointed near Raistlin's neatly rolled-up blankets.

"The leader," grunted Caramon.

"Yes," Raistlin agreed, staring at the charm. A shudder passed through his body, his hand trembled. "It is evil, Caramon. A thing of darkness. And it is old. Its time stretches back before the Cataclysm,"

"Get rid of it!" said the warrior tersely.

"No, I – " Raistlin hesitated, then turned to Earwig. "Would you truly like to wear this?"

"Oh, yes!" sighed the kender. "Wow! A 'thing of darkness'!"

"Raist – " began Caramon, but his brother shot him a swift, warning glance, and the big man hushed.

Threading the skull on a silver chain that was among the loot, the mage slipped it over the kender's neck. Raistlin murmured soft words, touched the metal chain with his fingers. Earwig, his face bright with pleasure, stared at his new necklace in awe.

Raistlin rose and stretched his thin body, then began to cough in the chill morning air. Turning, he made his way back to the fire. Caramon followed.

"What do we do with that stuff?"

"Leave it. There is nothing of value."

Glancing back, Caramon saw Earwig happily stuffing as much of the treasure as he could into his packs and pouches.

"You've made the kender a target, Raistlin," said the big man.

The mage knelt by the fire, his thin body huddling near for warmth. "Not a target, brother," he corrected coolly. "Bait."

"Either way, he's in danger. Whoever wore that might be looking for it. He'll know the kender was a witness to his crime. What were those words you said over the necklace? Some sort of protective spell?"

Raistlin snorted. "Don't be a fool, Caramon. It was a simple cantrip, one that will prevent the kender from removing the necklace. As for the danger, he's in less danger than either you or I would be, wearing that charm.

Bnotrjens

No one takes kender seriously. They'll assume he found it and put it on for a lark. We must watch for those who might take an unusual interest in it."

"I don't like it, Raist," persisted Caramon with unusual stubbornness.

"I didn't like being nearly murdered in my sleep!" his twin snapped. He rose to his feet, leaning on the magical staff. "Come along. It's time we were going. I want to get there before dark."

'There? Where? Mereklar?" Caramon scattered the coals of the fire with his booted foot and tossed water on them.

"No. The Inn of the Black Cat,"

Caramon never ceased to be amazed by his brother. Ever since the infamous test required of every mage who aspired to enter the higher realms of magic – the test that could prove lethal – Raistlin's health had been shattered. His body was thin, barely skin and bones. He coughed persistently. Sometimes Caramon wondered fearfully if his brother would be able to draw another breath. Plagued by terrible dreams, Raistlin tossed and turned and often screamed aloud in his sleep. Some mornings, he was barely able to crawl from his bed.

Yet this morning, the young mage seemed unusually well. He walked with a brisk step, barely leaning on his staff. He had eaten – for him – a good breakfast consisting of bread and fruit. He had not needed to drink the herbal tea that soothed his cough nor breathe the fumes of the bag. His eyes were bright, glittering in the morning light.

"It's this mystery," Caramon said to himself. "He thrives on intrigue. I'm glad Raist is handling it. Me – I'd rather face an army of goblins. I hate skulking about."

The warrior heaved a sigh. He spent the day walking with his broadsword in hand, sending piercing, darting glances into the woods, expecting another ambush at any moment.

Caramon's other companion was also enjoying himself. Earwig skipped down the path, twirling in the air the kender's favorite weapon – the hoopak. A walking stick with a sling fitted to the yoke at the top, Earwig's hoopak was unusual in that the top could be removed, turning the staff into a blowgun. It fired small, sharp, barbed darts that the kender carried in the inner right sleeve of his traveling outfit.

Earwig was, in fact, extremely fond of weapons of all sorts and prided himself on his collection. An unusual throwing knife with five blades curving out in separate directions was his pride and joy. He also carried another invention of his own – eggshells filled with special powders and liquids that could be released on impact. Besides these, he owned many other weapons, but usually forgot or absentmindedly exchanged them for other, more exciting, objects.

Earwig had been with the twins only a short time, but he was willing to follow them as they began new adventures. He was fascinated by the magician with the strange eyes and shining golden skin and was happy to be with someone so interesting and unique. The kender did feel sorry for Raistlin, however. The mage was so gloomy. Earwig took it upon himself, therefore, to regale the mage with tales of fantastic adventures in other parts of Krynn or stories he had heard from friends and relatives, trying to cheer Raistlin from the continual melancholy that surrounded him as heavily as his red robes.

The mage would simply ignore him or, if Raistlin was in a particularly bad mood, he would attempt to sweep

Bnotrjens Majene

Earwig out his way with his staff.

When this happened. Earwig would skip over to talk with Caramon, who was always interested in stories and had a few wild tales of his own that even the kender had difficulty believing.

Today, Earwig noted that Raistlin seemed unusually cheerful. The kender was determined to keep the conjurer in a good mood, so he began telling one of his favorite jokes.

"Hey, Raistlin," he began, "have you ever heard of Dizzy Longtongue, the kender who could throw his hoopak with such skill and accuracy he could make it return to his hand? Well, one day a minotaur made a bet with the kender that he couldn't throw his staff around the girth of a forest, and Dizzy said, 'I'll bet you the gold in my pocket against the ring in your nose that I can make my hoopak come back to me from around the forest.' The minotaur accepted and said that if he didn't make it, he would have Dizzy for dessert with dinner. Dizzy naturally agreed."

Earwig paused, waiting for some reaction from Raistlin. But the mage, occasionally coughing, kept his hooded gaze on the road.

The kender, shrugging, continued. "Dizzy took a hundred pace running start before he let go of his hoopak with a mighty zing!" Earwig imitated Dizzy's magnificent throw, arcing his hoopak over his head without letting go, the sling-thong making an appropriate buzz. "Dizzy and the minotaur waited for hours, listening for the sound of the returning hoopak. After a day had passed, the minotaur said, 'Well, my lad, it looks like I'm having you for afters,' and Dizzy said – "

"Look, Caramon." Raistlin raised the staff and pointed. "An inn."

"No, I don't think that's what Dizzy said." Earwig scratched his head. " 'Look, Caramon, an inn,' just doesn't make sense, does it? Actually, what Dizzy said was – "

"I can't see the sign." Caramon peered through the trees.

"No, no, no!" Earwig cried, exasperated. "That wasn't it, at all! And, if you must know, there's a black cat on the sign. Now, if you'll be quiet, I'll tell you what Dizzy said to the minotaur who was about to eat him for dinner. He said – "

"Dinner," said Raistlin softly. "I believe we should stop here for dinner and a night's rest, my brother. Don't you agree? It's what you were wanting, after all."

"Sure, Raist," Caramon said without enthusiasm, eyeing the inn darkly. He thrust the broadsword back in its sheathe, but kept it loose in the scabbard.

Earwig, seeing these preparations, opened his eyes wide. "Oh, Caramon! Do you think there's going to be trouble?"

The big man grunted. Raistlin, turning to Earwig with a smile, reached out his hand and arranged the kender's necklace so that it was clearly visible on his small breast.

"Thanks, Raistlin," said the kender, charmed. He couldn't remember the mage being so attentive. He must like my jokes, he concluded inwardly. Aloud, he continued, "Dizzy said to the minotaur – "

But Raistlin and Caramon had both walked away.

The inn, a huge, two-story house next to the road, stood outside the edge of the forest. Its walls were white stucco with brown woodwork, obviously old but not falling to ruin, with darkly stained crossworks decorating the sills around the windows and ledges. Each pane of glass was clean and clear, and the setting orange sun reflected blindingly from the upper-story windows, catching the last rays before they were trapped in the forest's paths and tangles of brush and tree.

His joke forgotten in his excitement. Earwig raced ahead to the tavern, constantly looking behind him, begging the two men to hurry. Caramon was more than willing to increase his pace, but Raistlin suddenly seemed to have more and more difficulty walking. He leaned on the staff heavily, his back bent as if carrying some unseen weight on his shoulders, his feet slipping.

Was this sudden weakness real or feigned? Caramon wondered uneasily, aiding his brother's faltering steps. With Raistlin, he never knew.

The three eventually reached the open fence of simple wooden posts that surrounded the inn. Caramon stared inside a large glass window, its panes held rigid by vertical and horizontal strips of wood, their simple, decorative carving hiding their practical use. The tavern appeared warm and friendly, and though the sun was just setting, many of the patrons were already sitting down with mugs of ale and goblets of wine.

Above their heads, a sign swung in the breeze with a muted screech, much like the call of a small cat. The illustration on the board was a depiction of a black cat, standing proudly with its head up and tail curved over its back.

"Interesting," murmured Raistlin.

"It's a cat," said Caramon.

"Yes, a black one. Black cats are the favored familiar of the evil wizards of the black robes. Generally any depiction of a black cat is derogatory, portraying the animal as evil as its master. The cat in this picture seems protective, benevolent. Interesting."

Caramon made no comment, but opened the huge wooden door that had been reinforced with iron bars and a large iron lock. Inside, the inn was as hot as a furnace. A huge fire in the center of the building burned brightly. The night air was turning cold, and the blaze was a welcome sensation to the companions. The big warrior stretched his muscles, extending his huge arms at his sides, arching his back, flexing his legs.

Earwig, curious to see what was going on, ran through the great archway that separated the dining room and drinking hall from the main entrance hall. Raistlin moved hurriedly to the fire. Leaning the staff against his shoulder, he held out both hands directly in front of the blaze, his gold skin reflecting dully in the light.

Caramon looked once at his brother, to make certain he was all right, then the big man tried to spot Earwig in the gathering crowd of people. It was hopeless; the ken-der had disappeared. Caramon sighed, wondering how they were going to protect Earwig when half the time they couldn't even find him. The warrior didn't know what to expect – evil men in black hoods leaping out at them from under a table, perhaps. He cast his sharp-eyed gaze around the crowd. No one looked particularly dangerous. But long experience in inns told the warrior something was wrong here. Everyone was too… quiet.

Caramon walked over to the worn desk that ran most of the length of the left side.of the room. He waited patiently for a few minutes, glancing back at his brother, still standing in front of the fire. Raistlin had not moved. He didn't even seem to be breathing. Caramon looked back into the eating hall, listening for the sounds of hasty oaths and shattering pottery that usually heralded Earwig's introduction into a crowd. But he heard nothing. The warrior began to drum his fingers against a large, leather-bound book sitting on the desk, its pages opened to reveal the names of patrons currently staying at the inn.

Caramon waited ten minutes without anybody coming to the desk. The warrior began to grow irritated. He had heard his twin begin to cough hoarsely, and he feared that Raistlin's deficient strength might give out completely. Caramon started to move away from the desk to help his brother to a chair when a middle-aged man wearing a clean apron came out of the eating area.

The man's head was bowed, as if he were thinking of something and was not fully aware of his surroundings. He walked to the rear of the desk, took a candle from a drawer, lit it, and went into a dark room behind the reception area without paying any heed to the huge warrior standing in the main hall.

Caramon, who had mutely watched the entrance and exit of the man, was almost ready to shout with frustration when the fellow came out again from the now-lit room. He jumped at the sight of the well-armed man and then gazed at the fighter morosely.

"We want a room," Caramon demanded. "A room with three beds and" – looking back to Raistlin – "it's got to have a fireplace."

Caramon glared into the man's brown eyes, daring him to say they didn't have anything like that available. But the innkeeper simply slid the guest book in front of the fighter, handed him a quill, and said, "Sign here, please."

Caramon looked again at his brother, and this time the innkeeper followed the big man's gaze.

"A wizard!" said the man, shocked out of his preoccupation.

"Yeah. So?" said Caramon. "I'm his brother."

"I'm sorry, sir. No offense. It's just… we don't see many wizards in these parts."

Probably because they're all murdered in the woods, Caramon thought but didn't say. He took the quill and signed his name, adding a quick sketch of a rose with a shining star in the center of the blossom – his personal picture for the old, forgotten god, Majere, whom his late father had taken for his surname.

Caramon turned the book around for the other man to inspect, but instead of looking down, the innkeeper just said, "My name's Yost. If you have any problems, please talk to me." Handing Caramon a key, Yost pointed up the stairs. "Third room to the right." He left the desk and quickly returned to the eating hall, his gaze darting to Raistlin.

Caramon frowned. He'd never been in an inn so curious. He looked at the key, which was attached to a small leather fob with the number 221 engraved on it. Shaking his head, the warrior walked over to his brother and started to put his arm around Raistlin's thin shoulders to help him to their room.

"Shhh!" The mage held up a warning finger. "Sit down!" he hissed out of the corner of his mouth.

Puzzled, Caramon began, "When you're ready, we can go up to our room. It's got a fireplace and – ".

"Yes, yes, I heard," Raistlin snapped, cutting his brother off with a sweeping motion of one golden hand.

Caramon, shrugging, turned to obey and nearly fell over Earwig, who was coming out of the dining hall.

"Don't bother going in," said the kender. "It's dull as a tomb in there. No one's laughing or singing or anything. Hey, why do they say that, Caramon? 'Dull as a tomb'? I'd think a tomb could be pretty lively – "

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, Cara-mon, 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."