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
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Bnotrjens Majens
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 mix-
DRAQONLANCE
ture 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.