Clumsily, the fighter sat, crossing his legs under him, his tall boots creaking.
“You look splendid, Caramon.” Shavas’s compliment made the fighter flush.
“Uh, thank you,” he said, unsure if he should return
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the compliment or merely accept gracefully. “This is a very nice spot you’ve picked out. It’s very . . . uh—”
“Private.” The woman finished for him. “As Councillor of Mereklar, I am constantly called upon to stand in the public eye. But even I have needs, and one of them is occasional privacy.”
“It sounds like you lead a very busy life.” Caramon gulped at his wine.
“Yes, very busy and very . . . lonely”
Shavas lowered her eyes. Her lashes cast long shadows, and a tear slid down her cheek. Caramon longed to take her in his arms, but he couldn’t figure out how to get around the food on the plates.
Staring at her glass, Shavas held it up to candle’s flame. The councillor suddenly blinked her eyes and frowned, shaking her head, as if awakening from a dream.
“A toast,” she said clearly. “To you and your brother—”
“And the success of our mission,” Caramon added loudly.
This seemed to take the woman by surprise. “Of course,” she said. “To . . . success.”
They sipped at the same time. Caramon would have downed his glass in one motion had he not seen his companion put her glass down, still mostly full.
“Are you hungry?” the councillor asked, reaching across the cloth to take the warrior’s plate.
Without waiting for an answer, she began dishing up food, selecting meat and fruit and fish. She took some herself, though nowhere near the same amount.
Caramon searched for forks and spoons, but found nothing and grew nervous, wondering if he had missed something again. Shavas saw his worry.
“Eat with your hands, Caramon. Nobody’s watching! We’re completely, absolutely alone.”
The woman took a berry between her fingers and
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brought it slowly up to her mouth, licking a drop of juice. The fighter looked on, felt heat rise to his face. He’d been Hungry before they sat down, but now he wondered if he could eat a mouthful. He’d never in his life wanted a woman as much as he wanted this one.
Neither said anything during the meal. Both seemed only to be waiting with anticipation for it to end.
When they finished, Shavas wiped her fingers on a silk napkin. Robere appeared, seemingly from out of nowhere, and began clearing away plates.
“When you are finished, you may leave,” said Shavas, her gaze fixed on Caramon.
“Thank you, my lady,” said Robere in obvious relief.
“Now, Caramon,” said Shavas, “What shall we talk about?”
“Talk?” the fighter returned, startled and disappointed. He’d had other ideas in mind. “I don’t know. What do you want to talk about?”
Shavas poured herself another glass of wine. “Tell me about yourself. Tell me about one of your adventures.”
The fighter thought of the stories he usually told in taverns, of blood and guts and cold steel. “I doubt any tales I know would interest you, my lady,” he mumbled, almost tipping over his wine. Grabbing it, he downed the glass at a swallow.
“You might be surprised,” said Shavas. “But if you don’t want to talk of battle, tell me about your brother. Tell me about Raistlin.”
Ah ha! Caramon shifted restlessly, jealously. Now he’d found her true interest! “Raist? What do you want to know about him?”
“Tell me what he’s like. He’s very young to have such power, isn’t He?”
“He is the first of his age to pass the Test at the Towers
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of High Sorcery,” said Caramon reluctantly, not wanting to think or talk about that terrible time.
“Truly?” Shavas prompted. “It must have been a frightening experience.”
“It was. Those who don’t pass the test die.”
Shavas, seeing him growing uncomfortable, smiled to herself and changed the subject.
“Have you and your brother journeyed together long?”
“All of our lives,” Caramon said softly, staring at the empty glass in his hands. “We’re never apart.”
“Except when each of you goes in search of what he truly desires.”