“What you mean is that you want me to do what is needed to repair your blunder,” Shavas said. She flashed them a scornful glance, turned, and walked from the room. Her right hand gripped tightly a large fire opal she wore around her neck, holding onto it as if she were holding onto her very life.
That same night, someone else at the inn noticed the rider’s hasty departure with interest. A black shape, almost invisible in the darkness, bounded down the same path the rider had taken. Moonlight glinted red in its eyes.
80
Cljapteu 7
CanaMON awoke tfte Next MORNING witl) a poi/NO-
ing in his head that his metal-working friend, Flint Fire-forge, would have envied. The steady hammer blows, falling with excruciating regularity, made him wince with pain. The delicate sounds of chirping birds were like the clash of spears, and the shuffling noises of the other patrons at the inn created a wave of agony.
Slowly drawing the sheets back from his head, exposing only his sleep-matted hair and bloodshot, half-closed eyes, the fighter glanced around the room, wincing again as a shaft of light struck him full in the face.
“A cruel blow!” he muttered.
81
DRAQONLANCE Pnelubes
Quickly pulling the sheets back over his head, Cara-mon lifted the bedspread from the side—avoiding another bright onslaught—and peered across the room to his brother. Still asleep, Raistlin appeared to be in pain— his back was arched slightly, his hands were curled into claws. But he breathed easily. Caramon sighed in relief.
The warrior glanced over to Earwig’s bed, hoping that the kender—with his shrill voice—was also still asleep. He was, if the steady rise and fall of his blankets was any indication.
“Good,” said Caramon to himself. “I’ll go downstairs and use my tried-and-true remedy for overindulgence.”
The warrior eased himself out of bed, his head bent against the morning’s light.
“Good morning, Caramon!” Earwig shrilled cheerfully, his voice piercing Caramon’s skull. The warrior fell over the bed as if toppled by a mighty blow.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so miserable. Thinking of Flint reminded him of one of the old dwarf’s many sayings, “A fighter’s greatest enemy is himself.” He had never understood what that meant until now. He wondered, too, if Flint had been referring to that terrible stuff—dwarf spirits—that had been the warrior’s downfall.
“Earwig,” Caramon began, speaking softly through clenched teeth, his hands slowly clamping his head to ease the pressure. “If you don’t shut up, I’m going to have to kill you.”
“What?” Earwig shouted, his voice just as loud as before. “What did you say? I couldn’t hear you. Would you repeat that, please?”
In answer, Caramon grabbed a pillow with his left hand, walked over to the kender, and bagged Earwig’s head with the pillowcase.
“Is this a game? What do I do now?” cried the kender, highly excited.
82
Majene
“Just sit there,” growled Caramon, “till I tell you to move.”
“All right. Say, this is fun.” Earwig, pillowcase over his head, composed himself to wait for whatever wonderful part of the game was going to come next.
Caramon walked out of the room.
Going to the well outside, he brought up a bucket of cold water and immersed his head in it. Sputtering, he shook himself like a dog, wiping his face on his shirt sleeves.
Returning indoors, still rubbing himself dry, Caramon went into the eating hall, where breakfast was being served. The smell of eggs, bacon, and hot muffins helped ease the unrelenting pain in his head and reminded him that he hadn’t eaten since dinner last night— and that had been interrupted.
It’s a good thing I never get sick when I drink, he thought to himself with pride.
The room was practically empty. The few sullen patrons seated there glanced at the big man, scowled, and glanced away.
Caramon ignored them. Going to the table he had occupied last night, he plopped his body down with such force that he almost fell over on the bench. Righting himself, the warrior sat very still until the queasiness left him.
“Well, almost never,” he amended.
“What can I get for you this morning?” It was Yost, the innkeeper, a slight smile stealing across his face.