I heard of some of these books while I was apprenticed. Why are they here? Why does she have them? he asked himself. Raistlin seemed to recall her saying something about the books being there when her family arrived after the Cataclysm. That was a credible answer, of course, but . . .
The mage tried to recall everything he had seen in the room—every decoration, statuette, picture. On a table were five stones of unusual hues and colors, each the length of a finger and very smooth, shining in the firelight. They might match the description of the lost Sending Stones. There was a model of the universe—a contraption of brass, a construction of moving parts, spheres and gauges, springs for winding, coils that released their energy when tightened—
Raistlin felt a hand on his. He jumped, then relaxed quickly when he saw that it was only Caramon’s. “Don’t
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touch me! You know how I hate it!” the mage snarled.
“I’m sorry, Raist, but I … I don’t feel very good.”
“Really? Shirak” he whispered.
The staff’s light gleamed in the carriage. Raistlin stared into his brother’s face. The warrior’s features were sunken and his eyes had dark rings under them, as if he had been awake for many days. His back was bent, and his shoulders sagged.
“It must have been the brandy,” Caramon concluded, groaning and leaning against the side of the carriage.
“Just how much did you have to drink?” Raistlin asked.
“Not much,” Caramon mumbled defensively.
Raistlin regarded his brother silently. Caramon could generally drink most men under the table. Reaching out his hand, the mage closed his fingers over his brother’s wrist, felt his pulse, rapid and thready. Beads of sweat began to pop out on the warrior’s forehead and upper lip.
Raistlin knew the symptoms, knew them well. But he denied it to himself. “You should learn to control your appetites, my brother,” said the mage.
The carriage dropped them off in front of the inn. This time it was Raistiin who assisted his twin inside the door of Barnstoke Hall.
“I’m all right, Raist. Honest,” said Caramon, ashamed of his weakness. He stood up straight, refusing his brother’s arm.
Raistlin looked at him, then shrugged and, leaning on his staff, walked toward the stairs. Earwig trudged along behind. The kender’s head was bowed. He looked neither to the right nor the left, but kept his eyes straight ahead on the floor in front of him. Caramon followed, staggering slightly, wondering if the ceiling was actually going to cave in on him, as it seemed.
The proprietor stood behind the desk at the side of the main room, looking through a stack of books, making
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notes with a black quill. He looked up when he heard his guests arrive.
“You’re returning late. It’s way past the middle of the night. I assume your meeting with the councillor went well, then, sirs?”
“I don’t see that it’s any business of yours,” Raistlin said softly as he passed by the desk, ascending the stairs, heading up to their room. The proprietor, affronted, went back to his work.
Caramon stumbled over to the stairway, falling to his knees. Raistlin looked back, pausing in concern.
“Go ahead,” Caramon waved his brother on. “I … just need to rest. I’ll . . . meet you in the room.” The fighter heaved himself off the floor, leaning against the stairwell. Earwig, not looking around, kept climbing the stairs.
Raistlin stared after the kender, who was acting every bit as strangely as Caramon. The mage wasn’t certain whom to assist.
“I will wait for you here, on the landing, my brother,” he said, keeping one eye on Caramon and one on Earwig.
The warrior, nodding, made it up the stairs. Raistlin took the big man’s arm and helped him to the room.
“Earwig, open the door.”
The kender nodded and did as he was told without comment, acting as if he were walking in his sleep. Caramon stumbled headlong into the room. Lifting his head, he caught, by the light of the staff, a quick glimpse of movement in a dark corner.
“Raist — ” he began, but before he could say anything more, his brother had shoved him to one side. A dart, its point glittering in the staff’s light, sped from the darkness straight at the fighter. Raistlin threw himself into the path of the missile, opening his cloak to create a shield of