Brothers Majere by Weis, Margaret

“And windows,” the warrior said to himself in near disbelief. “Where do people get the money for glass?”

There was every type of shop imaginable, selling wondrous things. They passed by a book shop that had the name “Oxford” painted in the window. Displayed in front on a wooden pedestal was a huge dictionary, open in the middle. Raistlin looked at the tome and sighed in longing. The price displayed was an almost unbelievable amount, more than Raistlin imagine earning in a lifetime.

As the mage walked down the avenue, more and more people began to stop what they were doing and stare at the red robes that hid the man of power. Some of the children ran up to Raistlin, reaching out to touch the strange black wood staff with the golden claw and pale blue orb of crystal. The mage did not move the staff from their reach. It seemed, when they drew too near, as if the black rod itself warded them away.

Caramon attracted attention as well. Men gazed at him, envying his youth and strength. Women watched him from out the corners of their eyes, admiring his strong arms and broad chest, his curly brown hair and handsome face.

“Hey, Caramon, why do all the girls stare at you?” Earwig asked wistfully.

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When the warrior looked their direction, the women turned red and buried their faces in their hands, giggling at Caramon’s leer and his broad grin.

“Probably never seen a sword this big,” said the fighter, winking.

Raistlin snorted in contempt.

Another hour passed, and the travelers could see Shavas’s house. Earwig, with his sharper eyes, could make out some detail. “It looks like it’s covered with plants. And its windows are made of colored glass!”

Raistlin listened to the Render’s description of the councillor’s house with interest, though he didn’t say anything. If what the kender said was accurate, the house was vastly different from every other house in the city. The mage stared ahead, leaning on his staff for comfort rather than any actual need. He felt unusually refreshed, even invigorated since his trial of the night before. The white line gleamed at his feet, shining brighter and more clearly with every step he took.

Soon all the companions could clearly see the house, raised up on a hill of dirt—a perfect circle of earth that ended where the white stone of the streets and sidewalks began. The mound rose above the level of the city, and a stone path wound up to the councillor’s house and around to the small groves that covered the hill of dirt. The top of the hill was large enough and flat enough to support a small pond, and streams ran out from it to water the colorful gardens along the sides of the estate.

Raistlin came to a halt, his gaze studying the stained-glass windows. Fascinated, he watched the sunlight glance off the tinted panes, reflecting a variety of colors that shone in his eyes—red, blue, green, white, and black. Five colors. It reminded him of his dream. Five colors . . .

The mage blinked his eyes and saw that the glass was nothing more than glass, held together by lead strips.

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bent into odd shapes that seemed somehow familiar. When he attempted to grasp where he had seen them before, his mind refused.

Raistlin suddenly felt weak and was unable to continue walking. “Caramon!” he called out, his voice reaching the ears of his brother, who was a slight distance ahead. “I must rest.”

The mage slumped down in a chair that belonged to another hyava shop. He leaned against the staff. His breath shortened, and he turned around with his back to the estate, lifting the cowl up over his head as Caramon hurried to his side.

A nervous serving-girl came out of the shop, bringing out two cups of the strong, dark brew. “No,” the fighter said, “he needs hot water.”

“This will be fine, my brother.” Raistlin snatched the drinks from the girl’s hands. When his brother gave a questioning glance, the mage said, “I’m just a little tired from the walk.”

Raistlin took his time, holding the ridiculously small handle between two fingers, swallowing slowly. Earwig sat down happily and began rummaging through his pouches.

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