Brothers Majere by Weis, Margaret

“Kender never get lost, perhaps because they never truly know where they are.”

Raistlin sat at the desk in front of the window in the companions’ room, writing something on a roll of parchment. Caramon, when he was through with his own cleaning, did his brother’s. The mage was also unwilling to let old habits die.

“What are you doing?”

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The red cowl was pulled back from Raistlin’s face, allowing the afternoon sun to fall on his golden features. He rested his quill, scowling at Caramon with a sideways glance before returning to his work.

“If you must know, I am asking Lady Shavas for access to her library tonight.”

“That’s great!” Caramon said heartily, relieved,

“Why that tone, my brother?”

“It’s just … I thought …”

“You thought I was going to sneak into her house like a thief?”

“Well . . .” the fighter began uncomfortably.

“You’re a dolt, Caramon.”

The big man kept silent. Usually his twin was the more intuitive of the two, but this time Caramon knew precisely what his brother was feeling. The pangs of jealously were sharp and left festering wounds.

Raistlin finished his writing and sat, waiting for the ink to dry. A knock on the door startled them both.

“Were you expecting anyone, Caramon?”

“No,” said the warrior, sliding his sword from its scabbard. “You?”

“No. Enter!” Raistlin called out.

The messenger, instead of opening the door, slid something under the crack between frame and floor. Footsteps retreated rapidly away from the room.

The mage retrieved the message, breaking the wax seal with a loud snapping sound. Turning to the light at the window, he held the parchment in both hands, reading.

“What is it?” the warrior asked, still holding the sword.

“It is a letter from Lady Shavas. She is waiting for you downstairs,” Raistlin said in even tones.

Caramon saw that his brother’s golden hands trembled. “Anything else?”

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Raistlin crumpled the message into a ball. “It says that I may use the councillor’s library tonight.”

“1 am so very glad you could accept my offer for this evening, Caramon,” said the Councillor of Mereklar.

The two sat in Shavas’s private carriage, guided by her personal driver.

“My p-pleasure,” Caramon stammered, gazing at his companion across the gulf that stretched between their seats.

Shavas wore a gown similar to the one she had worn when the companions first met her, only this one left her white shoulders bare. She had wrapped around her a silk shawl—the black one, Caramon noted nervously—with a lace pattern woven into the fabric, fringe hanging from the ends. From her neck hung the opal pendant.

“Are you cold, my lady? You may have my cloak,” the warrior offered, thinking his gesture gentlemanly.

Before Shavas could answer, he unclasped the black cloak from around his neck and tossed it clumsily over her body. Straightening the folds, Caramon accidentally touched the woman’s neck, her skin as soft as delicate clouds. He felt her warmth, a flush of life beneath his fingers.

“Sorry,” he apologized, blushing and returning to his seat.

Shavas smiled, arranging his cloak around her. The red inner lining of the fighter’s cloak made the woman seem magical—as dark and glittering as the three moons of Krynn.

I am being a real dolt, just like Raistlin said, Caramon thought with chagrin. Why can’t I relax when I’m with her? I’ve never felt this way around any woman before. It’s because she’s a lady—a true lady. The most beautiful

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I’ve ever seen. Just like the royal ladies in the stories about the Knights of Solamnia. Sturm, my old friend, how would you act? How does a knight treat a lady?

Caramon didn’t realize that he was staring at her until he saw Shavas lower her head, her cheeks mantling with a faint flush.

“I — I’m sorry. I know I’m acting like an idiot, but I can’t help it. You are so lovely!” Caramon stammered.

‘Thank you, my brave warrior,” Shavas said. Reaching out to him almost shyly, she allowed her fingers to brush against his hand. He trembled at her touch. “I am so glad you could come with me tonight. You help me forget about . . . about — “

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