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the guy in the red robes builds the city and a guy in a white robes helps from behind.”
Earwig stood back, scratching his head in confusion. The first part of the story had been easy to follow, flowing in a vertical direction down the wall, but now everything he looked at branched out in hundreds of directions, over the ceiling, across the floor, along the walls, lines of gold connecting each to a large triangle. Following the lines, he came to a great, stylized eye done in colors of red and white and black, staring at him in the wall opposite the triangle. All the gold lines in the room met at this symbol.
“Not much of a story,” Earwig sniffed. “The plot goes absolutely nowhere.”
The kender put his pack on his back, adjusting it for comfort, shifting his shoulders against the weight. He started to walk out of the room when he realized that something essential to his plan of escape was missing.
“A door. There’s no door! How am I supposed to get out of here?” he demanded angrily. “Wait! Maybe they hid the door, just so I’d have to find it.”
Cheering up, Earwig started to tap his hoopak against the walls, the wooden staff making a loud sound in the quiet of the cell. He systematically worked around from one corner to the others. “Tack, tack tack, tack, tack. Tick! That’s it!”
He pushed with all his strength against the block, but couldn’t move it. “Maybe this isn’t it,” he concluded, leaning back against the wall to rest. “Wha-oh!” The stone swung on hidden hinges, dumping the startled but highly elated kender onto the floor on the other side.
“Wake up, Caramon!”
Thin fingers bit into the young man’s shoulders. He
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was up and moving in an instant. With the instinct of a warrior, his body was functioning before his brain.
“I’m here! I’m ready!” he shouted, hands fumbling for his weapons.
“Don’t be alarmed. Yet. Get dressed.”
Caramon stared around sleepily, and realized he was in his comfortable room in Barnstoke Hall rather than in a war camp that had come under the attack of hordes of goblins.
“Sure, Raist.” He’d only been asleep, he judged, for several hours. “Just give me a couple of minutes to wash up and shave and — ”
Raistlin brought the metal-shod end of his staff to the floor with enough force to shake the lamps on the walls.
Caramon, startled, stared at his twin. Pain and outrage lined the golden face, flickering in the narrowed eyes. The warrior put his gear on quickly, as if he were about to engage in battle.
Raistlin, saying nothing, led the way from their room to the street. He seemed to have become a spirit of retribution overnight. What had happened? Caramon wondered .
The people they met walking on the avenue shied away, crossing over to the other sidewalk to avoid meeting the mage. The brothers entered a carriage. Raistlin commanded, “Westgate Street.” The driver nodded confirmation, snapping the reins.
The coach moved from along Southwall Street at a steady pace. Questions burned Caramon’s tongue, but he kept quiet. Raistlin had not looked at him directly since he’d wakened him. The mage stared intently into the shops along the roads, pointedly ignoring his twin.
Caramon, remembering with a rush of blood how he had spent the night, thought he knew the reason for his
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brother’s ill-humor. Why’s he blaming me? the warrior demanded silently, feeling guilty and not liking it. He made his choice. He got what he wanted, and so did I.
The coach turned right onto Westgate Street, and Car-amon saw his brother tense, both hands gripping the black staff until the skin over the knuckles turned white. The fighter could see nothing, could sense no element of danger, but he drew his dagger.
Raistlin saw his action and snorted in derision. “Put your knife away, Caramon. You are in no danger.”
“Are you in danger?” the warrior asked.
Raistlin glanced at his brother. Pain twisted the golden face, then the mage looked swiftly away. His hands gripped the Staff of Magius with such intensity that his fingers seemed likely to crack and bleed.