“Ah!” he whispered. “At last!”
He clutched the staff near him, golden face shining in the red heat of the fireplace. He began to read when suddenly he saw before his eyes the figures of Shavas and Caramon, bodies twined together in passionate embrace.
“I have no time for such things!” he snarled, closing his eyes, banishing the vision. Discipline. He prepared himself for the first glyph. Taking a deep breath, he aligned his mind with his goals, his will with his desires, and started down the winding path of power.
A bolt of white sent his senses reeling in pain, and his nerves caught fire. Yellow shafts rained down on him, contorting his body into impossible forms. Orange beams seared his brain, a flood of cold that broke his essence. Red coils destroyed his thoughts, spiriting them away to the infinite. Blue spears cut into his flesh.
“No! Never!” Raistlin cried.
Grabbing the black staff in both hands, standing alone in a universe of pain, he drew his will about him, gathering himself into a shining star of desire that kept his shattered form from falling to despair. The multi-colored demons wailed around him, formless creatures from nether-planes trying to ensnare his spirit and drag him into the Abyss. Though he felt his essence falling deeper and deeper, he forced his eyes to gaze still at the cursed runes. Raistlin knew that to give in, to cease reading for the slightest instant, would spell destruction for his being.
Then he knew that he did not fight alone. Someone else had a stake in this battle for Raistlin’s being. He laughed, daring and defying any world to take him, any plane to claim him for its own.
The creatures ceased their tortures and fled.
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Exhausted, Raistlin fell across the book. Beneath him, he heard the text disappear with the hiss of a snake. The trap was defeated. He had escaped.
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S/?avas walkeO f/?e patty of cxustyeo wtjite that led back to her house, admiring her flowers, whose dew-heavy heads hung over the path. The morning sun glinted off the stained-glass windows. Smiling, she tossed her head, shaking the mass of disheveled hair from her face.
The estate was very quiet, and even the sound of the waterclock was muffled, as if afraid to disturb her. Shavas went to the library, opening the heavy doors, closing them softly behind her. The room was empty. She frowned, wondering. What had she expected to find? The body of a young magic-user, his soul torn from
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him, dragged to stand before the Dark Queen? Had he truly escaped, proving his power? Or had he simply not tried? Shavas searched the room for some sign of his presence. There was none. The books on her shelf stood undisturbed. Perhaps he hadn’t read them. Perhaps he hadn’t even come.
No. Shavas smiled, and lifted the one book that the mage had not thought to replace, the one book that had seemed innocuous. He’d been here. And he had been triumphant. He was, indeed, worthy.
Shavas carried the book upstairs to her room. Without disrobing, she lay down in her bed. Opening the heavy book, she settled into a comfortable position to read the pages that were no longer blank. On the spine of the text were two words, freshly inlaid with gold: Brothers Majere.
A painting showed two men sitting around a campfire—one a large, handsome warrior; the other thin and frail, dressed in red robes, holding a black staff with a gold dragon’s claw clutching a pale blue orb. Shavas began to read.
Caramon enjoys guarding Raistlin’s sleep. This is the only time that the mage seems to his brother to be at peace, though occasionally this peace, too, is shattered by disturbing dreams. Caramon has always guarded his weaker brother against the dangers of the world, whether cold, sickness, or more obvious threats. He feels personally responsible for Raistlin’s well-being, though his brother does little to show his appreciation.
The responsibility Caramon feels for his brother stems from their youth. Raistlin’s physical weakness, his high intelligence and naturally sly, cynical nature, made him a target for bullies. Common’s timely intervention prevented his frail brother’s injury on several occasions when some of the pranks turned serious. Incapable of understanding the need to abuse the weak and helpless,