He coughed and added,
He went on for twenty lines, sipping ale after each line. Otik felt the boy was getting undue applause for his efforts; apparently, his theme had a lot of appeal tonight. Loriel, Tika's young rival, was gaping up at Patrig as though she was seeing the full moon for the first time. Her own mug was empty. Rian, of the seven gray hairs, was temporarily forgotten.
Finally, too excited to sing, Patrig threw up his arms, shouted, "Love, love, live," and crashed off the table. Otik made sure he wasn't hurt or dead, then ran to a corner table where two drovers, swearing fealty to each other, were strangling a stranger.
The raven-haired Hillae was gazing into her half-empty mug thoughtfully. "I wonder about her," Tika said dreamily to the frenzied Otik, who wasn't listening. "She is so beautiful, and perhaps wise. She has gone places. Done things. She has lived a life already. And who knows what secrets she might impart to me, if only we were friends."
Tika moved forward to refill her mug, and Hillae took another sip, set it down, and said aloud, but mostly to herself, "Farin would be thirty-three now. Gods rest him, a body like oak, and it still felleasily enough to fever." There were tears in her eyes. Tika re treated.
Meanwhile, Otik was refilling the mug of Elga the Washer, who was completely absorbed in Tumber's stories. The knight had drunk vast quantities of ale, and seemed most in love with himself; with every second breath he proclaimed his romantic and military prowess, and his adventures grew more outrageous. She didn't seem to notice, any more than she noticed the wobbly attentions of Reger or Farmer Mort whenever they popped up to proclaim their love of her before smashing each other down again.
Elga stared, elbow in hand, at the knight. When her mug was full, she tossed the ale down her throat and threw the empty mug sideways into Tumber's forehead. He didn't seem to notice, just went on describing an improbable epic of love and battle involving an opposing army, two warrior maids, a sea serpent, and a lute.
Elga stood full upright, threw her head back, and shouted, "Gods, goddesses, men and women, I am sick of laundry, cooking, children, and trees!"
Someone shouted approval, and she smashed her fist on the table. "Show me steel. Show me armor. Show me a battle, and something worth fighting for, and never stand between me and those things. I love adventure. I lust for glory. I crave-"
"And you shall have it," Tumber slurred. "All of it and more, in my great person. Come, queen of my battles, and worship my greatness. Thrill to watch my adventures. Glory in my talents, my prowess, my-"
"My god." Heads turned; Elga was no soft speaker. "YOUR battles? YOUR greatness? YOUR adventure?" Tum-ber almost cringed. "I'll have none of that. My battles, my conquest, MY wars. Give me that!"
He gaped at her. She shoved him backward, hit his exposed jaw with her left fist, and caught his sword as he sprawled. She waved it above her head. "Now let all the world forget Elga the Washer and beware Elga the Warrior. I leave Solace, to seek the combat, the ad venture, and the glory I love!"
"You can't take my sword," Tumber said from the floor. "It's my honor. It's my only battle companion- before you, of course. It's my LIVING" He wavered. "It's borrowed," he finished miserably as he rose.
"Borrowed?" She hefted it, spun it with a supple wrist, pointed it at him.
He put his arms up. "Well, yes. From a knight in financial straits. But I really have used it a little." He added desperately, "Come, love, and we'll seek glory together. Really, I'll let you use it some, if you'll just give it back-"
She pulled the sword away as he reached. "Borrowed, is it? Now it's twice borrowed." She shouted, in a voice that made the tankards vibrate, "Off to fortune and glory!" A few lovers cheered her between kisses. Otik moved to block her exit, but Elga swung the stolen sword menacingly in the doorway. Otik ducked aside, and she was gone.
Tumber the Mighty scuttled past Otik, throwing coins at him. "For her drinks and mine. Really, I don't know what got into her. Wonderful girl, actually; she loved my stories almost as much as I do. Wait, love!" he called down the stairs, and dashed out of sight, knocking Otik sideways.
Otik nearly backed into a raised arm; a middle-aged, peasant couple were waving arms at each other, their eyes locked. "Didyou or did you not look at her with pure desire, you great wobble cheeked fool?" asked the woman.
"Anyone would," the man answered, loud enough to be heard several trees over. "Especially if he were married to a wretched mass of gripes and dimples like you, cow. And you're one to talk, aren't you-ogling that skinny little sly-looking traveler back-" He turned to point at Reger, wavering when all he could see was an occasional flailing fist or arm. "Back there, somewhere. Tramp."
"Pig." They grabbed each other's throats and vanished under the table.
Tika watched, hand to her mouth. Grunts and heavy breathing emerged from under the table. Otik wondered, trotting past to the next crisis, if the two were still fighting, or…?
Tika rushed by him, nearly spilling ale from the pitcher. Otik grabbed her arm as she passed. "Did you give them full-strength ale?"
At first he thought he had grabbed her too hard;
then he realized that her tears were from panic. "I did. Strong as can be, straight from the new kegs. But they all get worse, not better. They're not even sleepy."
"Impossible." Otik sniffed at the ale. So did Tika. "Then what's happening?" wondered Otik.
From just the sniffing, Tika's eyes were already bright and restless. Otik knew the answer almost as soon as he had asked the question.
"Moonwick." Otik remembered speaking of magic, and he remembered leaving the kender alone with the alewort. "Theempty purse he dropped." A love potion! "If that damned thief trickster ever returns-"
Just in time he saw the man with the eye-patch raise his tankard, staring directly at Tika. Her eyes leveled in return. Otik gave a start and shoved her hastily behind the bar, setting a barrel in her place. The man licked his lips and came forward, tankard in hand. At the time, setting out the barrel seemed a clever feint, but it opened unforeseen floodgates. Despite Otik's protest-"I'm sorry, there seems to be something wrong with the ale"-the stranger methodically rolled out every last cask. The Inn guests cheered, looking up briefly from their loving and fighting. And the ale continued to pour.
After that, things became confused. The drovers had started several small fights, wandering off and losing interest between drinking rounds, then embracing each other passionately before starting up again. Patrig and Loriel were dancing in the middle of the room. Patrig's mother and father were kissing against the tree trunk. Hillae had disappeared somewhere, and Reger was riding Farmer Mort horseback in circles around the room. Their whoops and cries were indistinguishable from whatever was going on over there, and there, in the shadows.
Tika said, "Can ale do all that?" She looked interest-ediy at the mug on her tray. "Otik, what if I-"
"No."
"But it looks like so much-"
"No. It looks like too much, that's what it does." Otik pulled her away from a line of dancing old men and women.
"But if Loriel can-"
"No, no, and no. You're not Loriel." Otik made a de cision. "Here's your cloak. Wear it. Here's mine; sleep in it. Find a place, go, and don't come back to the Inn tonight."
"But you can't manage without me."
Otik gestured at the room now frenzied with activity. "I can't manage WITH you. Go."
"But where will I sleep?"
"Anywhere. Outside. Someplace safe. Go, child." He cleared her way to the door, pulling her with one hand.
As she stepped into the night, she said in a hurt voice, "But why?"
Otik stopped dead. "Well, we'll talk about that later. Go, child. I'm sorry."
He tried to kiss her good night. Tika, angry, ducked and ran. "I want a place of my own!" she cried. Otik stared after her, then closed the door and tried to get back to the fire.
The best he could do was edge to the bar. The dancers and fighters had split into smaller but more boisterous groups, shouting and singing to each other. Otik, unable even to feed the fire, watched helplessly as the bodies became struggling silhouettes, the silhouettes coupled shadows, the shadows a noisy dark. That night the inn was full of joyous and angry voices, but all he could see, by a single candle held near the mirror, was his own face, alone.
The next morning Otik stepped dazedly over broken mugs and intertwined bodies. Most of the benches lay on their sides, one completely turned over. It was like a battlefield, he thought, but for the life of him he couldn't tell who won. There were bodies on bodies, and clothing hung like banners over chairs, and out-flung arms and wayward legs sticking from under the few pieces of upright furniture. Tankards lay on their sides everywhere, and everywhere pieces of pottery rocked on the floor as people snored or groaned.
The fire was nearly out. Not even during the worst nights of Haggard Winter had that happened. Otik put tinder on the last embers, blew them into flame, added splinters, and laid the legs of a broken chair on.
He moved the skillet as quietly as possible, but inevitably the eggs sizzled in the grease. Someone whimpered. Otik tactfully pulled the pan from the fire.
Instead he tiptoed around, gathering dented tankards, pottery shards, and a few stray knives and daggers. A haggard young stranger grabbed his ankle and pleaded for water. When Otik returned, the man was asleep, his arm wrapped protectively around the raven-tressed Hillae. Instead of making him look protective, it made him seem even younger. She smiled in her sleep and stroked his hair.
The steps thudded too loudly; someone was stamping up them. Otik heard more whimpers. The front door boomed against the wall, and Tika, her hair pulled primly back, stepped through and looked disapprovingly at the debris and tangled bodies. "Shall we clean up?" she said too loudly.
Otik winced as the others cringed around her. "In a while. Would you go fetch water? We'll need more than the cistern holds, I'm afraid."
"If you really need it." She slammed the inn door. The thump of her tread down the stairs shook the floor.
"Can't we kill her?" Reger the trader groaned. His right arm was wrapped around both his ears, and his head was cradled on the sleeping farmer's chest. A few weak voices croaked encouragement.
"Even think that again," Otik said quietly, "and I will bang two pots together."
It was quiet after that.
Gradually the bodies disentwined. A few rose, shakily. Hillae approached the bar with dignity and passed some coins. "Thank you," she said quietly. "Not the evening I'd planned, but interesting enough, I suppose."
"Not the evening I'd planned either," Otik agreed. "Will you be all right then?"
"Tired." She pulled her hair back over her shoulders. "It's time I was back home. I have a bird, you know, and it needs feeding."
"Oh, a caged bird, then." Otik realized he wasn't at his sharpest. "Songbird?"
"Lovebird. The mate is dead. You know, I really ought to set it free." She smiled suddenly. "Good day." She bent quietly over, kissed the cheek of her sleeping partner, and walked silently and gracefully out.
Tika struggled back in, knocking buckets against thedoorframe. A few patrons flinched, but glared at Otik through red rimmed eyes and said nothing.
He took the water from her. "Thank you. Now go tell Mikel Claymaker that I need fifty mugs." He passed her a handful of coins. "There's my earnest for the order."
She stared at the money. Otik was as casual with his coin today as he was with his help. "Shouldn't I stay here?" she said loudly. "You'll need someone to mop the floor-" She stamped on it to shake the dust for emphasis.
'"This is how you can best help me," he said softly. She looked puzzled, but nodded.
A body detached itself from the chair on which it had been draped like a homemade doll. "Tika-"
"Loriel?" Tika couldn't believe it. "Your hair looks like a bird's nest." She added, "Sea bird. Sloppy one."
"It does?" Loriel put a hand up, then dropped it. "No matter. Tika, the most exciting thing. Patrig told me last night that he likes me. He said so again this morning."
"Patrig?" Tika looked around. A pair of familiar boots stuck out from under the main table, toes spread. "Loriel, he spoke this morning?"
"For a while. Then he fell back asleep." Her eyes shone. "He sang so beautifully last night-"
"I remember," Tika said flatly. She couldn't imagine anyone admiring his singing, and Loriel was musical. "Walk with me, and tell me about it."
They ran down the stairs together.
After that, painfully, the patrons gathered their belongings-in some cases their clothes-and paid up. Some had to walk quite a distance to find everything. Purses and buskins and jerkins lay throughout the room, and knapsacks hung from all points andpegs- one, incredibly, from a loose side-peg in a ceiling cross beam. For a while Otik watched, attempting to prevent thievery. Eventually he gave up.
Reger the Trader slapped the bar with a snake-embossed foreign coin and said, "This will cover my lodgings, and could I buy a marketing supply of that ale? In this weather it would keep for the road-"
Otik bit the coin and rejected it, dropping it with a dull clank. "Not for sale."
"Oh. Yes, well-" Reger fumbled for real money. "If you change your mind, I'll be back. There." He counted the change, then added a copper. "And give breakfast to my friend there. He may not feel too well." He gestured at Farmer Mort, who had a huge lump behind his right ear.
"I see that. Good day, sir." Otik watched with approval as Reger took the stairs lightly and quickly. On instinct, as when a kender left, he checked the spoons. Some were missing.
Patrig woke healthy and whole, as the young will, and left singing-badly. He asked after Loriel on his way out. Kugel the Elder and his wife tiptoed out bickering, hand in hand. They turned in the door and frowned disapprovingly at the other couples.
The couple that had fought, or whatever, under the tables, left separately. A man whom Otik had barely noticed the night before paid for a room-"so that my friend can sleep if she wishes." When Otik asked when his friend wished to wake up, he blushed and said, "Oh, don't wake her. Not for half a day. Longer, in fact." Otik noticed, as innkeepers will, the circular groove on the man's third finger, where he usually wore a ring.
The rest were sitting up, looking around embar-rassedly, testing their heads and tongues. Otik stepped to the center of the common room and said diffidently, "If the company believes it is ready for breakfast-" he looked through the stained glass to the long-risen sun-"or early lunch-" He nodded at the murmur of assent and put the skillet of eggs back on the fire. At the kitchen door he called to Riga the cook for potatoes, but not too loudly.
By mid-moming he had assessed the night's damage and its profit. After re-hammering the tankards and replacing the mugs, he would still have the greatest profit he had ever made from one night, and not half the lodgings paid up yet. He lifted the pile of coins. It took two hands, and shone in the light from a broken rose windowpane.
All the same, when the man with the eye-patch croaked that he wanted a farewell mug "to guard against road dust," Otik laid hands on the final keg and said firmly, "No, sir. I will never sell this ale full strength again." He added, "You may have a mug of the regular stock."
The man grunted. "All right. Not that I blame you. But it's a shame and a crime, if you intend to water that batch. How can you water ale and not kill the flavor?"
He drained the mug and staggered out. Otik marveled that such a seasoned drinker didn't know the secret of watering ale. You watered ale with ale, of course.
He looked back at his last cask of the only magical brew he had ever made and, gods willing, the only batch he ever would make.
He took his corkscrew in one hand and the pitcher in the other, and he carried the funnel looped by the handle over his belt. Each cask, one by one, he un-stoppered, tapped a pint to make room, and poured in a pint of the new ale. It took most of the morning, and almost all of his last fresh cask.
When he finished at midday, every last barrel was forty or fifty parts ale to one part liquid love, and he had one-half pint of the new ale left. He was sweating, and his biceps ached from drawing stoppers and pounding them back. He slumped on the stool back of the bar and turned around to look at the casks.
The store-room was floor to ceiling with barrels. For as long as the barrels lasted, the Inn of the Last Home would hardly have a fight, or a grudge, or a broken heart.
Otik smiled, but he was too tired to maintain it. He wiped his hands on the bar-rag and said hoarsely, "I could use a drink."
The last half-pint sat on the bar, droplets coursing down its sides. Circular ripples pulsed across it as the wind moved the tree branches below the floor.
He could offer it to any woman in the world, and she would love him. He could have a goddess, or a young girl, or a plump helpmate his own age who would steal the covers and tease him about his weight and mull cider for him on the cold late nights. All these years, and he had barely had time to feel lonely.
All these years.
Otik looked around the Inn of the Last Home. He had grown up polishing this bar and scrubbing that uneven, age-smoothed floor. Most of the folk here were friends, and strangers whom he tried to make welcome. He heard the echo of himself saying to Tika, "In all the world no place else can ever be home for them."
He smiled around at the wood, at the stained glass, at the friends he had, and at the friends he hadn't met yet. He raised his glass. "Your health, ladies and gentlemen."
He drank it in one pull.
Wayward Children
Richard A. Knaak
"A fool's errand, that's what this is!"
Though the words were little more than a hiss, B'rak heard them all too well. He also agreed with them, but it was not his place to say so-especially as he was captain of this patrol.
Others heard the complaint as well. "If you cannot keep your warriors in line, captain, I will be glad to do so for you!"
B'rak hissed angrily at the tall figure wrapped in black cloth. If there was one point on which B'rak agreed with humans, it was that magic-users were not to be trusted, much less liked. But he had no choice:
they were assigned to all patrols. He unfurled his wings to emphasize his displeasure at having a mage along on this scouting mission. His metallic silver skin glistened in the light as he pointed a talon at the other.
"The Dragon Highlord commanded that you accompany us, Vergrim, not that you lead us. I will deal with my men as I see fit."
Vergrim's answering smile made even draconians uneasy. Nevertheless, he nodded acceptance of B'rak's words and turned his attention back to the wilderness around them.
They had been wandering for days among the rich woodland just north of the New Sea. Their mission was to assure headquarters that this region was empty of resistance, something that even now made B'rak question the leadership of the Dragon Highlord. He and his men should be fighting for the glory of the Queen. Of what use were his tactical skills against a random elk, several birds, and trees as far as the eye could see?
Sith, his lieutenant, tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to the right. Reptilian eyes narrowed as the patrol captain studied the woods. They widened equally as quickly. Was that an upright figure he saw in the distance? Eagerly, he studied it. That was no animal. An elf or, more likely, a human. Elves were generally more difficult to notice. Secretly, he would prefer a human. Elves were sly, more prone to use tricks than face a warrior one-on-one. Humans knew how to fight. With humans, B'rak could generally assure himself of an entertaining battle.
Some of the warriors in back muttered quietly, their wings rustling. He waved them to silence, though he could well understand their eagerness. This was the first sign of activity they had come across. B'rak fairly quivered with excitement. Had the Highlord known more than the orders had stated? The captain glared at Vergrim, but the draconian magic-user's attention was focused completely on the shadowy figure moving through the trees. If the mage knew something, he was hiding it well. That was not at all like Vergrim.
B'rak dispatched two of his best trackers to follow the figure. The stranger might be just a single hunter, but the captain would not take that chance. There might even be a village up ahead, though how it could have escaped their notice when they were searching earlier was beyond his imagination.
The wait for the trackers to return was long. It was not helped by the constant muttering that arose from Vergrim's need to memorize his spells. More than one warrior was forced to stretch stiffened wings. B'rak tapped his sword impatiently. The day neared its finish.
The trackers returned two hours later. They reported that the figure had led them from one spot to another for no apparent reason. Just when they were convinced that he knew of their presence, the solitary traveler had stepped into the clearing around a small village. The inhabitants of the village were elves.
B'rak was slightly disappointed on hearing this, but he pushed the thought aside. Here, at least, would be some action. One of the trackers handed him a map showing the location of the village. It was some distance to the northeast. They would arrive just before dark.
Vergrim studied the map with great interest, but uttered no comment. B'rak ignored him; this was a possible battle situation and his authority was supreme in that respect. The magic-user could advise, but nothing more.
They moved cautiously through the woods in the general direction of the village. B'rak sent men ahead in order to avoid an ambush. As he walked, he noticed his head beginning to throb. Anunusual occurrence, he was not subject to such weakness. For tunately, the pain was not severe enough to affect his judgment.
They met no resistance whatsoever. This might have been virgin
forest, with the draconians the first intelligent life to pass through it. B'rak's warriors relaxed, their minds turning to thoughts of looting. The captain frowned; discipline was slipping. He avoided looking at Vergrim, knowing the other would be wearing that mocking smile.
The village, when they came to it, was so small as to be almost unbelievable. It couldn't house more than a dozen families. The homes were simple, more like one might have expected humans to live in than elves.
B'rak saw immediately that even with only twenty warriors and the magic-user, he could still have taken it easily. He spat on the ground, the throbbing in his head increasing his anger tenfold. Too simple.
Unrest was spreading through his patrol. Even Sith, always calm and quiet, was shifting impatiently. It Had been far too long since any of them had seen action, and now it appeared that they had been deprived of it once more. B'rak finally gave the signal. The patrol advanced into the clearing.
At first, they saw no one. Then, gradually, heads appeared in windows and doorways. Surprisingly, there were no looks of anger, no shouts of hate. The elves stepped out into the openings and stared. Just stared. They seemed to be waiting for something, looking for someone.
The draconians stopped abruptly, alarmed at the unusual reaction of the elves. B'rak turned to Vergrim.
"Well? Are we in any threat of attack here?"
The hooded figure shook his head in distaste. "We have nothing to fear from these weaklings! I read only the desire to help and care for us. Pfah! Even their el-ven kin would be disgusted at such tolerance as I feel."
Sith leaned close. "Shall we destroy the village?"
B'rak waved him away. "It is not worth the trouble now. If this is an example of what we can expect, the Highlord has little to fear from this region." He studied the elves, frowned, and turned back to his companions. "Where are their young? I see only adults-and most of those are silver-haired."
One of the trackers came up and bowed before him. "We studied the village for a long time before reporting back, captain. Not once did we see any young."
The throbbing in B'rak's head had become little more than a nuisance, but it was just enough to unleash his anger. He shouted to the elves, "I want your leaders here now! If they do not appear, my men will raze this village and kill everyone!"
The elves did not speak, but some of them stepped aside, opening a path for the oldest elf any of the draconians had ever seen. His beard was a sparkling silver and came near to matching his arms in length. He wore only a simple cloth robe, apparently the village's only form of clothing since the other elves were clad in a similar fashion. He carried a long wooden staff, which he also used as a crutch. As he neared the dra-conian leader, his eyes sparkled. The ancient male wore no sign of authority that B'rak could identify, but the captain had no doubt whatever that this was indeed the village elder.
Vergrim hissed. "Careful, B'rak. He may be a cleric. This whole village smells of a shrine or something. See how they all dress, how they all act."
"Do you detect any threat from this old one? From the look of things, he can barely stand."
"No. As with the others, I detect only the wish to help. Curious." The Black Robe sounded almost disappointed, B'rak noted.
The elder paused before the reptilian warriors. "I am Eliyah, the Speaker for this village. We bid you welcome and offer you our humble hospitality."
The captain waved away the offer for the moment and went immediately to the point that concerned him. "Where are your young? Your children? I warn you, if they do not appear, I shall give the order to have you all put to death."
Eliyah sighed and a sadness seemed to sweep over the entire elven population. B'rak was taken aback by the intensity of the emotion. Had some plague struck down the young? Were he and his patrol in danger? He quickly discarded the thought; no plague he knew of would take the young and strong and leave the old and sickly.
The elder waved a feeble hand at the group of elves that had closed in behind him. "These are all you will find here. Our children have been turned from our ways and no longer recognize us. We pray they will return to us, but our hope grows faint."
Draconians are not known for their sympathy. B'rak, however, found it impossible not to feel some of the hurt the elves bore. Even Vergrim looked downcast for a moment.
The pain in the captain's head brought him back to reality. He cursed harshly, clutching at his head. Eliyah touched his shoulder in a gesture of concern. Sith came to his commander's aid.
"Are you all right, captain?"
"My head pounds, that is all. We will stay here for the night. Secure the area. Post a guard. Secure hostages."
There was a commotion at the back of the patrol. B'rak steadied himself but could not see what was happening. Vergrim, who stood taller, looked at the commotion and then came up to B'rak.
"One of your men appears to have collapsed. Exhaustion, perhaps. I will see to him."
"Captain…"
B'rak turned once more to the Speaker. "What is it, old one?"
"You and your companions need food and rest. Come. You have nothing to fear from us. My people will see to your men. Food, shelter-whatever they wish."
Sith jumped on the last statement. "A trick! They will poison the food."
"Unlikely. We will take hostages if necessary. They will not dare harm any of us if their kin are in danger. Any attempt to do so will be answered with the total destruction of this village." B'rak summoned two of his warriors. "You two will come with me." To the elf, he said, "I will accept your hospitality-by staying at your home."
Sith opened his mouth to protest, but decided against it. He merely glared at the elven Speaker and then stalked off to do his duty. Eliyah bowed respectfully and turned, his face having revealed no animosity toward his sudden houseguest. His pace was so slow that the captain had ample time to study the other villagers as they walked along.
As a whole, they were a sorrowful people. B'rak wondered what could have brought elves to such a state. They did not seem to fear draconians and were certainly not hostile to them. There were no signs of plague or destruction. The entire place was an enigma. What had really happened to their children? He chuckled. Boredom, perhaps.
The dwellings of the elves proved to be even more dismal up close. All were constructed from wood and generally consisted of one room. With that in mind, the home of the Speaker appeared comparatively luxurious. It rested against one side of an enormous tree and was no more than a few yards from the main village. Like the others, it was of wood, but large enough to house the entire population. B'rak suspected the structure doubled as a meeting house and contemplated future uses for it.
An elven woman with long, flowing tresses of silver mixed with flakes of gold greeted them at the entrance. Though obviously old, she was still a handsome woman. B'rak, though, could not think of her as anything but someone's grandmother.
"My greetings to our guests."
Eliyah hugged her briefly and then turned back to the draconian commander. "This is my mate, Aurilla Starleaf. She will prepare food for you while I show your men where they may rest. Is that acceptable?"
B'rak blinked. Acceptable? The question made him smile. He was beginning to like these people and their ways. With a flourish that would have done the Highlord justice, B'rak gave his approval. The Speaker left and his mate entered the building. The captain hesitated before following her and turned to the guards.
"See that I am not disturbed. Keep an eye on those two old ones, too. Sith will see to it that you are relieved. Until then, I expect you to be on your guard."
They saluted. B'rak nodded, turned, and sauntered inside, feeling every inch the conqueror.
If the outside appearance of the dwelling hinted simplicity, the inside stated it quite bluntly. There were few pieces of furniture, save a table and two chairs. From the pillows and blankets scattered around, B'rak guessed that the elves here had little use for such things.
The female called Aurilla stepped into the room, a hot bowl in her tiny hands. She gestured to the table. "Please sit. I have made you some broth. I am sure you will find it to your liking."
B'rak purposely displayed long rows of sharp teeth designed for tearing. He much preferred meat to plants and broths. Fresh meat, especially. The elf was unaffected by his act. She smiled and placed the broth on the table. The draconian sniffed. It did smell good. There was meat in it, too, judging by the aroma. He made his way to the table and sat down in one of the chairs.
The bowl was small, allowing him to swallow the contents in three gulps. He looked up, tongue clearing away the last vestiges of the broth. Aurilla was already there, a second bowl in her hands. B'rak grunted his satisfaction, and she smiled like a mother who had just been complimented by her favorite child. The draconian could not help chuckling at the odd picture that presented.
He took longer with the second bowl. His headache was nagging. Sleep was now becoming an urgent need. He grew impatient for the Speaker's return. One taloned hand gripped the now-empty bowl and crushed it. As if on cue, the ancient elf returned.
"I have prepared sleeping quarters for you with your men. Or you may stay here if you wish."
"I will stay here. My second and the mage will be allowed in here as well. My warriors will be satisfied with whatever they can find." Such are the privileges of rank, the captain added mentally.
There was suddenly a commotion at the entrance. B'rak, hearing draconian voices raised in anger, pulled out his sword. A trap! I've been a fool! They've led me on a leash! He rushed through the doorway.
Vergrim was there, looking very sinister and very upset. The two guards blocked his path. B'rak cursed;
he had not meant they should prevent the magic-user from entering. No doubt the only thing holding Vergrim back from retaliating was the fact that he believed they were only following their leader's orders. The patrol leader sheathed his weapon and stepped forward to try and rectify the situation.
"Hold, all of you! What is it, Vergrim? Why do you disturb me?"
The Black Robe straightened his hood and glared at the two guards. "If I may be permitted to speak with you in private?"
B'rak waved the two aside. "Come inside."
"I will not go in there. It is tainted by the weak creatures who live in it."
"I'll remember that when I'm sleeping in there. What is it you want?"
"I said I would speak with you in private. Send these away."
The captain stretched his wings. "You try my patience, Vergrim. Very well. You two, seek out Sith. Tell him you are to be fed. Return here immediately after, however."
The guards responded eagerly. B'rak turned his attention once more to the mage. Vergrim stared past the patrol leader and frowned. B'rak twisted around and discovered both the Speaker and his mate standing in the entranceway. Both wore looks of concern.
"Await me inside. Go!"
They reluctantly stepped back inside the dwelling. B'rak focused on Vergrim and prayed that this time he would hear what the magic-user was so distraught about. Each delay was costing him sleep. To make matters worse, his head was now buzzing worse than before.
"You have three minutes. Speak!"
"I have inspected the warrior who collapsed. His name is S'sira."
"I know him. Quiet but deadly. Go on."
"He is not suffering from fatigue. He complains of headaches and dizziness, but it is not due to a lack of rest. I cannot say for sure, but I believe he may be suffering from some disease."
The captain folded his arms. "You believe it has something to do with the villagers."
"Look for yourself. Where are all the young? The strong? It would explain much."
B'rak laughed harshly. "It explains nothing. I have already thought of that. What disease, pray tell, kills the young and strong while allowing one such as the Speaker to go untouched? Sickness is nothing new to me. If you cannot care for S'sira, it shall be in the Queen's hands."
"You are a fool. Like all warriors. Your own life may be in danger."
"Have a care, mage!" B'rak hissed. Vergrim turned away, thus ending any further conversation. The patrol leader clutched his head; the buzzing was now at a level where it hurt to think. He stalked back into the Speaker's home and shouted for the elf.
Eliyah was already there, a silent spectre. B'rak, already in a foul mood, cursed at him. The elder smiled sympathetically and asked if he wished to rest now. The draconian muttered an affirmative.
The sleeping room proved to be as drab as the rest of the speakers hovel, though it mattered little to B'rak at this point. He only wanted to lie down and forget the buzzing in his head. He wanted to forget Black Robes and struggles for domination. When Eliyah finally stopped before a pile of pillows and blankets, the captain virtually flung himself to the ground. It was not the most comfortable position for one of his kind, with his wings all crunched up, but he was beyond caring about such trivial things. The Speaker made to leave, but the draconian summoned him back.
"See to it that I rest peacefully, elf. No one, especially the Black Robe, is to disturb my slumber."
Eliyah looked down at him with great seriousness. "You shall not be disturbed, my son. We shall see to that."
B'rak smiled and drifted off, oddly assured by the statement.
Soaring like a bird. High in the heavens. Below him, some of the creatures cursed to a life on one level trudged along their dreary way. He swooped down on them, frightening the lot. They scattered hither and yonder, calling out his name in terror.
He had not meant to frighten them. Not really. They were an interesting group, these small creatures. Dwarves, most likely. He landed gracefully and called to them, telling them that he meant no harm, was only trying to have a little fun.
It took much coaxing to get them to come out of their hiding places. When they did, it was carefully and in small groups of two and three. He smiled in order to reassure them. They smiled back.
When they were close, he let loose the flame.
They shrieked and ran. He could not tell if he had burned any of them. Truly, he had only meant to play with them. He was horrified at himself. With a terrible cry, he shot into the heavens. The clouds were not high enough for him. He flew up and up, seeking the stars and the powers behind them. His cry ripped through the fabric of reality, touching the ears of the gods themselves.
They were there. Opposites. The Queen of Darkness and the brilliant figure clad in platinum armor. Both reached for him. He heard the countless voices crying to him, calling to him as a parent calls for a child who is lost. Almost he came to them.
The light frightened him, though. It wanted to twist him, make him other than he was. B'rak turned and fled, flying to the safety and security of the Queen of Darkness. She welcomed him back.
All turned to black. The voices wailed at the loss and then faded away.
B'rak woke with a start. He hissed loudly in the darkness, having taken it for part of his dream. Someone stirred nearby. The draconian sniffed. Sith. No one else. Vergrim had apparently decided to seek rest elsewhere.
Sith hissed in his sleep, apparently the victim of dreams not to his liking. B'rak stood up, his eyes now accustomed to the lack of light, and rubbed his head. The buzzing was still there, but at a level barely noticeable. The nightmare was all but forgotten now; the feeling of unease was not. B'rak flexed his wings in thought and then suddenly departed the lodge.
He made his way quietly past the sleeping elves in the other room and stepped outside. The sun was not yet up. The captain hissed to himself. He turned to one of the two guards at the entrance and kicked him. The figure cursed and clutched its leg. B'rak tittered a quiet but direct order-along with the consequences of slow obedience. The warrior quickly stood at attention.
B'rak breathed into his face. "Seek out the trackers and have them report to me. Now!"
The soldier scurried away. B'rak switched to the remaining guard, who now stood poised and ready for battle. The draconian commander moved so that he stood eye-to-eye with the other.
"Where is the Black Robe? Have you seen him or were you asleep all night?"
"He is with the stricken one, captain-S'sira."
"Where would that be?"
The voice floated through the waning night. "There is no need to look for me, captain. I am here."
B'rak whirled. Even in the darkness, he could make out the burning eyes of Vergrim. The magic-user was buried deep within the black cloak which seemed almost an extension of his own form. The mage looked grim.
"It is odd that you should come seeking me, captain. I was just on my way to speak with you. Interesting, don't you think? Tell me, is your headache better?"
"Why do you ask?"
"I shall tell you when you have answered my question. Is your headache better?"
"Yes. It only buzzes slightly now. I found it difficult to sleep."
The hood bobbed up and down as Vergrim nodded. "I suspected as much. You might be interested to know that a number of the men have also complained of headaches and buzzing. S'sira is apparently the only one to have been stricken badly. He babbles like a madman and his form is contorted from pain."
The first rays of light broke through the darkness. B'rak bared his teeth. "He wasn't that sick before. When did this start?"
"Soon after the patrol settled down. Most of those touched were asleep. Shortly after waking, they grew better."
At that moment, the other guard returned with the trackers. They saluted. B'rak ignored them at first, his thoughts on a hundred possibilities. At last, he came to a decision. He turned to the newcomers.
"Did you survey the surrounding forest?"
The two trackers looked at one another. B'rak's eyes narrowed. "That is standard procedure, is it not?"
The senior of the two spoke. "Captain, we did survey the forest. It is just that we found nothing to report. You saw the map. Nothing but trees and grass for miles."
The patrol leader nodded. "I see. Very well, you are dismissed."
The trackers departed with great haste. B'rak looked at the Black Robe. "You detect nothing from these elves?"
"Only the same as before-the desire to help and care for us. I have not really paid much more attention to them. They are worth less than gully dwarves. At least those creatures know no better. These elves are purely pathetic."
"Then, what do you believe the cause of this-this illness to be?"
"I know not. I felt it necessary to report my feelings and possibly warn you."
B'rak grunted. "Consider me warned."
Vergrim hissed. "I shall see what else I can do for your man. I fear it will not be enough, though."
"May we be of service?"
The elven Speaker and his mate stood behind them. The captain had no idea how long they had been there, but he was pleased to see that the Black Robe was just as startled. He looked from one elf to the other. "How can you help?"
"Our knowledge covers a span of countless generations. It may be that there is something in it that relates to your ill warrior. We only wish to help."
B'rak eyed them skeptically. "Vergrim?"
The mage's voice was barely audible. "I still sense nothing but worry and care for us. I do not understand it, but it is there. They may be of some use. I shall, however, trust them only so far."
"Shall I dispatch a guard to assist you?"
Vergrim scoffed. "I think I can safely handle two aged elves."
The draconian commander nodded. To the elves he replied, "Very well. Go with the magic-user. Be warned-he shall watch your every move! If my warrior dies, you two will follow immediately."
"We understand, captain. We will do what we can."
Vergrim hissed and motioned them to follow him. They did so, maintaining a respectable distance from the magic-user. B'rak watched them depart and rubbed a leathery hand across his chin.
"Sith!"
His second, looking half-dead, stumbled out of the Speaker's dwelling. The captain allowed him a moment to organize himself.
"Captain?"
"You are in charge for now. Organize the patrol for action. I shall return shortly."
"Yes, captain."
B'rak adjusted his sword belt and set out toward the forest himself. Now and then, he would pass one of the elves. All refused to meet his gaze. He hissed softly; there was a difference in their attitude. What it was he could not place. He only knew there was a difference. The sadness was there, but something had changed.
He walked for some time. The woods replaced the village. Eventually he paused at what he estimated to be a fair distance from the community. The land was hilly; another two hours would bring him to one of the lesser mountain ranges in this region. The hills, though, would serve his purpose.
He chose the tallest, most jagged of the hills. One side ended in a sheer cliff. The slight breeze tempted him. Though his wings were of little use for actual flight, he could easily glide some distance. That, however, was not his purpose for being here.
As he had surmised, the hill gave him an excellent view of the surrounding landscape, including the village. Far to the southwest lay what looked like the edge of the New Sea. On either side, vast mountains thrust up from the earth, like great walls protecting the region. The flatter lands consisted only of forest. Virgin forest. Massive trees and lush fields.
His suspicions confirmed, B'rak made his way swiftly down the hill. He prayed Sith had obeyed his instructions and mobilized the patrol. There was still a chance for victory if he had done so. At the very least, the draconians would not be unprepared when the elves made their move.
A trap. Even elves left signs of their existence other than a single, tiny village. B'rak knew of the elaborate dwellings formed from nature, knew of the cities created by the artistic race. A population, though, must eat, and B'rak, a veteran of many battles, knew that even the elves cultivated food and traded with their own kind. Eliyah and his people, though, had no fields, no groves of fruit-bearing trees, no cities coexisting with nature.
In short, the village existed only for the patrol's benefit. A lure. Somehow, they had known his patrol would be coming. After that, it was a matter of waiting.
The draconian cursed his blindness. Sorcery had to be involved. Such colossal errors in judgment were not possible, at least not by a veteran such as himself. Even Vergrim had fallen prey to it. Vergrim with his power, his spells, his ability to read what others felt. All the Black Robe had found was the desire to help.
That was the piece of the puzzle still hidden. They could have killed him, several times over. He had certainly been careless enough, pretending to be the mighty conqueror of a handful of peaceful elves. They could have killed him in his sleep.
They had done nothing.
He reached the outskirts of the village, half-expecting battle. The elves were nowhere to be seen. Neither was Vergrim. But Sith and the patrol were awaiting him. His second-in-command jumped to attention.
"Your orders, captain?"
B'rak surveyed the village, the trap, and hissed, "I want this village burned to the ground! I want the elves slaughtered, their bodies burned! Start with the hostages! The responsibility is yours. Be prepared for battle! This is a trap! I must seek the Black Robe out before it is too late!"
Sith grinned as the captain hurried by. His teeth glittered in the sun as he barked out orders. Here, at last, was what he had been waiting for. Here was action. He pulled a burning stick out of a fire some of the warriors had built earlier. Others followed his example.
It was then a race to see who would be the one to start the inferno.
B'rak was nearly spent by the time he reached the dwelling where the elves had housed the stricken warrior. It was apart from the rest of the village. Behind him, the shrieks of his warriors could be heard. He hoped they would not accidentally burn down the forest in their enthusiasm. At least, not until the patrol was well on its way.
He was met by Vergrim at the entrance to the hut. The Black Robe, looking drawn, eyed him in a peculiar manner.
"What have you done, B'rak?"
"This is a trap, mage! Just as you originally believed! A very subtle trap!"
The Black Robe continued to stare at him. "What have you done?"
"My patrol is even now burning this village to the ground! I have ordered these elves to be slaughtered before their kinsmen can arrive! They are crafty, Ver grim! Crafty enough to fool the senses of a magic-user!"
The other draconian nodded slowly. "True. It was all for nothing, though. The plan failed. Nothing could be done. The Queen's spell was stronger than we had imagined."
B'rak hissed angrily. "We? What spell? What are you talking about? Where is the elf and his mate? What have they done to you, mage? You're acting even stranger than usual!"
Vergrim moved to one side of the entrance. "You had best see for yourself, captain."
Pushing the mage aside, B'rak burst into the hut. The darkness of the interior prevented him from seeing anything at first and he wondered why there were no windows. Within moments, though, his eyes had adjusted completely.
The draconian backed up a step in horror, every oath to the Queen of Darkness escaping from his mouth as he sought to avoid looking at the thing on the blanket. It was S'sira-and it was not. The form changed constantly, as if two forces sought domination and could not successfully defeat one another, the commander thought.
Disgusted, he pulled the sword from its sheath and forced himself to stand over the shifting mass. One stroke cut off what should have been the head. B'rak picked up a large piece of cloth, intending to use it to clean his weapon. The cloth turned out to be part of a dark robe which had once belonged to Vergrim. The magic-user's charred body lay crumpled in a corner.
"The Queen's hold is too great." The voice was that of the mage, but the form was that of an elf. Looking at him closely, feeling an unreasonable fear creep over him B'rak saw that it was Eliyah… and yet it wasn't Eliyah. "We should have never believed she would honor an agreement."
"Some of us refused to believe there was no hope," the elf continued. "We were determined to bring back our children. If the Queen could turn them into hateful monstrosities, we could turn them back."
The draconian captain stepped forward. "You are my prisoner, old one! I have uncovered your trap! Even now, my men are slaughtering your people and burning this mockery of a village."
Eliyah shook his head sadly. "I had hopes for you, especially. I knew you for mine when I saw you. The same determination, the same strength. The dream almost caught you. Just as it almost caught the other one." One hand pointed to the still form on the blanket. In the dim light, the elf's hand looked almost leathery.
Eliyah went on. "There was little time to prepare an actual village. Magic did what was necessary, causing you to accept what should not have been acceptable. It was not enough, though. Only one of you truly responded to our spell, despite its intensity. He would not have survived the transformation, however, and was therefore better dead-though I could not bring myself to do it, having come so close to success."
"What transformation?" B'rak backed away. The elf did not act like a prisoner, and his appearance had taken on an odd aspect. The face was broadening, becoming more reptilian.
"You were the next generation. Our pride and joy. Our dear children. Long ago, while we slept, the Queen and her evil dragons stole our eggs and held them hostage, forcing us to swear an oath that we would not interfere in her wicked designs to conquer the world. She promised to leave the eggs unharmed, but she lied. Using her dark arts, she perverted them into creatures such as you. I tell you this, my son, so you know that we do what we now do out of love for what you should have been-if not for the foul Queen."
Wings spread. All vestiges of elf melted away into a towering form of brilliant silver. The draconian fell backward, one hand brandishing the sword in a feeble attempt to defend himself. The walls of the hut, no longer able to hold in the expanding form, burst apart like parchment. B'rak was forced to dodge parts of the roof.
The massive head stared down. A sigh escaped the great jaws.
"Forgive us, your parents, for failing you."
Everything was fire.
The fire was contained in the village. They made sure of that. Not one draconian escaped. Their very act of attempting to burn the village had assured their presence when the moment came.
For three days, the parents mourned the loss. Three days of sorrow, of singing to those twisted by the Queen. When that was done, the dragons-some silver, some gold, some speckled with each-flew off to join their kin in the terrible war.
Behind them, they left only ashes.
The Test of the Twins
Margaret Weis
The magician and his brother rode through the mists toward the secret place.
"We shouldn't have come," Caramon muttered. His large, strong hand was on the hilt of his great sword, and his eyes searched every shadow. "I have been in many dangerous places, but nothing to equal this!"
Raistlin glanced around. He noticed dark, twisted shadows and heard strange sounds.
"They will not bother us, brother," he said gently. "We have been invited. They are guardians who keep out the unwanted." He did, however, draw his red robes closer around his thin body and move to ride nearer Caramon.
"Mages invited us… I don't trust 'em." Caramon scowled.
Raistlin glanced at him. "Does that include me, dear brother?" he asked softly.
Caramon did not reply.
Although twins, the two brothers could not have been more different. Raistlin, frail and sickly magician and scholar, pondered this difference frequently. They were one whole man split in two: Caramon the body, Raistlin the mind. As such, the two needed and depended on each other far more than other brothers. But, in some ways, it was an unwholesome dependence, for it was as if each was incomplete without the other. At least, this was how it seemed to Raistlin. He bitterly resented whatever gods had played such a trick that cursed him with a weak body when he longed for mastery over others. He was thankful that, at least, he had been granted the skills of a magician. It gave him the power he craved. These skills almost made him the equal of his brother.
Caramon-strong and muscular, a born fighter- always laughed heartily whenever Raistlin discussed their differences. Caramon enjoyed being his «little» brother's protector. But, although he was very fond of Raistlin, Caramon pitied his weakertwin. Unfortunately, Caramon had a tendency to express his broth erly concern in unthoughtful ways. He often let his pity show, not realizing it was like a knife twisting in his brother's soul.
Caramon admired his brother's skill as a magician as one admires a festival juggler. He did not treat it seriously or respectfully. Caramon had met neither man nor monster that could not be handled by the sword. Therefore, he could not understand this dangerous trip his brother was undertaking for the sake of his magic.
"It's all parlor tricks, Raist," Caramon protested. "Riding into that forsaken land is nothing to risk our lives over."
Raistlin replied gently-he always spoke gently to Caramon that he was determined on this course of action for reasons of his own and that Cannon could come if he so chose. Of course, Caramon went. The two had rarely been separated from one another since birth.
The journey was long and hazardous. Carmen's sword was frequently drawn. Raistlin felt his strength ebbing. They were near the end now. Raistlin rode in silence, oppressed with the doubt and fear that shrouded him as it had when he first decided on this course of action. Perhaps Caramon was right, perhaps he was risking their lives needlessly.
It had been three months ago when the Head of the Order arrived at his master's home. Par-Salian had invited Raistlin to visit with him as he dined-much to the master's surprise.
"When do you take the Test, Raistlin?" the old man asked the young conjurer.
"Test?" Raistlin repeated, startled. No need to ask which Test-there was only one.
"He is not ready, Par-Salian," his master protested. "He is young-only twenty-one! His spellbook is far from complete-"
"Yes," Par-Salian interrupted, his eyes narrowing. "But you believe you are ready, don't you, Raistlin?"
Raistlin had kept his eyes lowered, in the proper show of humility, his hood drawn over his face. Suddenly, he threw backhis hood and lifted his head, staring directly, proudly, at Par Salian. "I am ready. Great One," Raistlin spoke coolly.
Par-Salian nodded, his eyes glittering. "Begin your journey in three months' time," the old man said, then went back to eating his fish.
Raistlin's master gave him a furious glance, rebuking him for his impudence. Par-Salian did not look at him again. The young conjurer bowed and left without a word.
The servant let him out; however, Raistlin slipped back through the unlocked door, cast a sleep spell upon the servant, and stood, hidden in the alcove, listening to the conversation between his master and Par-Salian.
"The Order has never tested one so young," the master said. "And you chose him! Of all my pupils, he is the most unworthy. I simply do not understand."
"You don't like him, do you?" Par-Salian asked mildly.
"No one does," the master snapped. "There is no compassion in him, no humanity. He is greedy and grasping, difficult to trust. Did you know that his nickname among the other students is the Sly One? He absorbs from everyone's soul and gives back nothing of his own. His eyes are mirrors; they reflect all he sees in cold, brittle terms."
"He is highly intelligent," Par-Salian suggested.
"Oh, there's no denying that." The master sniffed. "He is my best pupil. And he has a natural affinity for magic. Not one of those surface users."
"Yes," Par-Salian agreed. "Raistlin's magic springs from deep within."
"But it springs from a dark well," the master said, shaking his head. "Sometimes I look at him and shudder, seeing the Black Robes fall upon him. That will be his destiny, I fear."
"I think not," Par-Salian said thoughtfully. "There is more to him than you see, though I admit he keeps it well hidden. More to him than he knows himself, I'll wager."
"Mmmmm," the master sounded very dubious.
Raistlin smiled to himself, a twisted smile. It came as no surprise to learn his master's true feelings. Raistlin sneered. Who cares? he thought bitterly. As for Par-Salian-Raistlin shrugged it off.
"What of his brother?" Par-Salian asked.
Raistlin, his ear pressed against the door, frowned.
"Ah!" The master became effusive. "Night and day. Caramon is handsome, honorable, trusting, everyone's friend. Theirs is a strange relationship. I have seen Raistlin watch Caramon with a fierce, burning love in his eyes. And the next instant, I have seen such hatred and jealousy I think the young man could murder his twin without giving it a second thought." He coughed, apologetically. "Let me send you Algenon, Great One. He is not as intelligent as Raistlin, but his heart is true and good."
"Algenon is TOO good," Par-Salian snorted. "He has never known torment or suffering or evil. Set him in a cold, biting wind and he will wither like a maiden's first rose. But Raistlin-well, one who constantly battles evil within will not be overly dismayed by evil without."
Raistlin heard chairs scrape. Par-Salian stood up.
"Let's not argue. I was given a choice to make and I have made it," Par-Salian said.
"Forgive me. Great One, I did not mean to be contradictory," the master said stiffly, hurt.
Raistlin heard Par-Salian sigh wearily. "I should be the one to apologize, old friend," he said. "Forgive me. There is trouble coming upon us that the world may not survive. This choice has been a heavy burden upon me. As you know, the Test may well prove fatal to the young man."
"It has killed others more worthy," the master murmured.
Their conversation turned to other matters, so Raistlin crept away.
The young mage considered Par-Salian's words many times during the weeks that followed while he prepared for his journey. Sometimes he would hug himself with pride at being chosen by the Great One to take the Test-the greatest honor conferred on a magician. But, at night, the words may WELL PROVE FATAL haunted his dreams.
He thought, as he drew nearer and nearer the Towers, about those who had not survived. Their belongings had been returned to their families, without a single word (other than Par-Salian's regrets). For this reason, many magicians did not take the Test. After all, it gave no additional power. It added no spells to the spellbook. One could practice magic quite well without it, and many did so. But they were not considered «true» magic-users by their peers, and they knew it. The Test gave a mage an aura that surrounded him. When entering the presence of others, this aura was deeply felt by all and, therefore, commanded respect.
Raistlin hungered for that respect. But did he hunger for it enough to be willing to die trying to obtain it?
"There it is!" Caramon interrupted his thoughts, reining his horse in sharply.
"The fabled Towers of High Sorcery," Raistlin said, staring in awe.
The three tall stone towers resembled skeletal fingers, clawing out of the grave.
"We could turn back now," Caramon croaked, his voice breaking.
Raistlin looked at his brother in astonishment. For the first time since he could remember, Raistlin saw fear in Caramon. The young conjurer felt an unusual sensation-a warmth spread over him. He reached out and put a steady hand on his brother's trembling arm. "Do not be afraid, Caramon," Raistlin said, "I am with you."
Caramon looked at Raistlin, then laughed nervously to himself. He urged his horse forward.
The two entered the Towers. Vast stone walls and darkness swallowed them up, then they heard the voice: "Approach."
The two walked ahead. Raistlin walked steadfastly, but Caramon moved warily, his hand on the hilt of his sword. They came to stand before a withered figure sitting in the center of a cold, empty chamber.
"Welcome, Raistlin," Par-Salian said. "Do you consider yourself prepared to undergo your final Test?"
"I do, Par-Salian, Greatest of Them All."
Par-Salian studied the young man before him. The conjurer's pale, thin cheeks were stained with a faint flush, as though fever burned in his blood. "Who accompanies you?" Par-Salian asked.
"My twin brother, Caramon, Great Mage." Raist-lin's mouth twisted into a snarl. "As you see. Great One, I am no fighter. My brother came to protect me."
Par-Salian stared at the brothers, reflecting on the odd humor of the gods. TWINS! THIS CARAMON IS HUGE. SIX FEET TALL, HE MUST WEIGH OVER TWO HUNDRED POUNDS. HIS FACE-A FACE OF SMILES AND BOISTEROUS LAUGHTER; THE EYES ARE AS OPEN AS HIS HEART. POOR RAISTLIN.
Par-Salian turned his gaze back to the young man whose red robes hung from thin, stooped shoulders. Obviously weak, Raistlin was the one who could never take what he wanted, so he had learned, long ago, that magic could compensate for his deficiencies. Par-Salian looked into the eyes. No, they were not mirrors as the master had said-not for those with the power to see deeply. There was good inside the young man-an inner core of strength that would enable his fragile body to endure much. But now his soul was a cold, shapeless mass, dark with pride, greed, and selfishness. Therefore, as a shapeless mass of metal isplunged into a white-hot fire and emerges shining steel, so Par Salian intended to forge this conjurer.
"Your brother cannot stay," the Mage admonished softly.
"I am aware of that. Great One," Raistlin replied, with a hint of impatience.
"He will be well cared for in your absence," Par-Salian continued. "And of course, he will be allowed to carry home your valuables should the Test prove beyond your skill."
"Carry home… valuables…" Caromon's face became grim as he considered this statement. Then it darkened as he understood the full meaning of the Mage's words. "You mean-"
'Raistlin's voice cut in, sharp, edged. "He means, dear brother, that you will take home my possessions in the event of my death."
Par-Salian shrugged.
"Failure, invariably, proves fatal."
"Yes, you're right. I forgot that death could be a result of this..
ritual." Caramon's face crumped into wrinkles of fear. He laid his
hand on his brother's arm. "I think you should forget this, Raist. Let's go home."
Raistlin twitched at his brother's touch, his thin body shuddering. "Do I counsel you to refuse battle?" he flared. Then, controlling his anger, he continued more calmly. "This is my battle, Caramon. Do not worry. I will not fail."
Caramon pleaded. "Please, Raist… I'm supposed to take care of you-"
"Leave me!" Raistlin's control cracked, splintered, wounding his brother.
Caramon fell backward. "All right," he mumbled. "I'll… I'll meet you… outside." He flashed the Mage a threatening glance. Then he turned and walked out of the chamber, his huge battlesword clanking against his thigh.
A door thudded, then there was silence.
"I apologize for my brother," Raistlin said, his lips barely moving.
"Do you?" Par-Salian asked. "Why?"
The young man scowled. "Because he always… Oh, can't we just get on with this?" His hands clenched beneath the sleeves of his robe.
"Of course," the Mage replied, leaning back in his chair. Raistlin stood straight, eyes open and unblinking. Then he drew in a sharp breath.
The Mage made a gesture. There was a sound, a shattering crack. Quickly, the conjurer vanished.