“But, Raist! What am I supposed to say to the girl?
‘Come down to our room, my brother wants you’?”
Recognizing the voice, Amberyl pressed closer against
the door, listening carefully.
“If that is all you can think of saying, then say that.”
The whispering, sneering voice, barely heard above the
howling of the storm wind, sent tiny prickles of pain
through Amberyl’s body. Shivering, she drew closer still. “I
don’t care what you do, just bring her to me!”
Amberyl heard a shuffling sound and a deprecating
cough. “Uh, Raist, I don’t know how grateful you think she’s
gonna be, but from what I’ve seen of her – ”
“Caramon,” said the whispering voice, “I am weary and
sick, and I have no more patience to cope with your
stupidity. I told you to bring the girl to me. Now do so. . . .”
The voice trailed off in coughing.
There came the sound of heavy footsteps nearing the door.
Fearful of being caught listening, yet unable to leave,
Amberyl wondered frantically what to do. She had just
decided to run back to her room and hide when the door
opened.
“Name of the gods!” Caramon said in astonishment,
reaching out and catching hold of Amberyl as she shrank
backward. “Here she is, Raist! Standing outside in the hall.
Eavesdropping!”
“Is she?” The golden-eyed, golden-skinned mage
looked up curiously from where he sat huddled by the fire
as his brother half-dragged, half-led Amberyl into the room.
“What were you doing out there?” he asked, his eyes
narrowing.
For a moment, Amberyl could say nothing. She just stood
staring at the mage, twisting the bottom of her scarf in her
hands.
“Hold on, Raist,” Caramon said gently. “Don’t yell at
her. The poor thing’s freezing. Her hands are like a ghoul’s.
Here, my lady,” the big man said awkwardly, leading her
closer to the fire and drawing up a chair for her. “Sit down.
You’ll catch your death.” He put his hand on her scarf. “This
is wet from the snow. Let me take – ”
“No!” Amberyl cried in a choked voice, her hands
going to the scarf. “No,” she repeated more softly, flushing
to see Raistlin look at her with a grim smile. “I – I’m fine. I
… never . . . catch cold. Please. . . .”
“Leave us, Caramon,” Raistlin said coldly.
“What?” The big man looked startled.
“I said leave us. Go back to your pitcher of ale and the
barmaid. She appeared not insensible to your attractions.”
“Uh, sure, Raist. If that’s what you want ….” Caramon
hesitated, looking at his brother with such a dumb-founded
expression on his face that Amberyl started to laugh, only it
came out in a sob. Hiding her face in her scarf, she tried to
check her tears.
“Leave us!” Raistlin ordered.
“Sure!” Amberyl heard Caramon backing out the door.
“Just . . . just remember, you’re not strong, Raistlin . . . .”
The door closed gently.
“I – I’m sorry,” Amberyl faltered, raising her face from
the scarf, using the hem to dry her eyes. “I didn’t mean to
cry. I lost control. It – it won’t happen again.”
Raistlin did not answer her. Comfortably settled in a
battered old chair, the mage sat calmly staring at Amberyl,
his frail hands clutching a mug of tea that had long ago
gone cold. Behind him, near at hand, his staff leaned against
the wall. “Remove the scarf,” he said finally, after a long
silence.
Swallowing her tears, Amberyl slowly reached up and
unwound the scarf from her face. The expression in the
golden eyes did not change; it was cold and smooth as
glass. Amberyl discovered, looking into those eyes, that she
could see herself reflected there. She wouldn’t be able to
enter again, not as she had on the stairs. The mage had put
up barriers around his soul.
Too late! she thought in despair. Too late. . . .
“What have you done to me?” Raistlin asked, still not
moving. “What spell have you cast upon me? Name it, that I
may know how to break it.”
Amberyl looked down, unable to stand the gaze of those