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nace. 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
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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
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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.