The young barmaid had received a great deal of practice in fighting on their journey south to find the Hammer of Kharas and, though she would never be truly skilled with a sword, she had developed shield-bashing into an art. She wore her armor casually now. It was still mismatched, but she kept adding to it, scrounging pieces left on battlefields. The sunlight glinted on her chainmail vest, glistened in her red hair. Caramon’s face was animated and relaxed as he talked with the young woman. They did not touch-not with the golden eyes of Caramon’s twin on them-but they leaned very near each other.
Laurana sighed and turned away, feeling very lonely and thinking of Raistlin’s wards-very frightened.
She heard her sigh echoed, but it was not a sigh of regret. It was a sigh of irritation. Turning slightly, she looked dawn at Raistlin. The mage had closed the spellbook he was trying to read, and moved into the little bit of sunlight that came through the glass. He had to study his spellbook daily. It is the curse of the magi that they must commit their spells to memory time and again, for the words of magic flicker and die like sparks from a fire. Each spell cast saps the mage’s strength, leaving him physically weakened until he is finally exhausted and cannot work any magic at all without rest.
Raistlin’s strength had been growing since the companions’ meeting in Solace, as had his power. He had mastered several new spells taught to him by Fizban, the bumbling old magician who had died in Pax Tharkas. As his power grew, so did the misgivings of his companions. No one had any overt cause to mistrust him-indeed, his magic had saved their lives several times. But there was something disquieting about him-secret, silent, self-contained, and solitary as an oyster.
Absently caressing the night-blue cover of the strange spellbook he had acquired in Xak Tsaroth, Raistlin stared into the street. His golden eyes with their dark, hourglass-shaped pupils glittered coldly.
Although Laurana disliked speaking to the mage, she had to know! What had he meant-along farewell?
“What do you see when you look far away like that?” she asked softly, sitting down next to him, feeling a sudden weakness of fear sweep over her.
“What do I see?” he repeated softly. There was great pain and sadness in his voice, not the bitterness she was accustomed to hearing. “I see time as it affects all things. Human flesh withers and dies before my eyes. Flowers bloom, only to fade. Trees drop green leaves, never to regain them. In my sight, it is always winter, always night.”
“And-this was done to you in the Towers of High Sorcery?” Laurana asked; shocked beyond measure. “Why? To what end?”
Raistlin smiled his rare and twisted smile. “To remind me of my own mortality. To teach me compassion.” His voice sank. “I was proud and arrogant in my youth. The youngest to take the Test, I was going to show them all!” His frail fist clenched. “Oh, I showed them. They shattered my body and devoured my mind until by the end I was capable of-” He stopped abruptly, his eyes shifting to Caramon.
“Of what?” Laurana asked, fearing to know, yet fascinated.
“Nothing,” Raistlin whispered, lowering his eyes. “I am forbidden to speak of it.”
Laurana saw his hands tremble. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His breath wheezed and he began to cough. Feeling guilty for having inadvertently caused such anguish, she flushed and shank her head, biting her lip. “I-I’m sorry to have given you pain. I didn’t mean to.” Confused, she looked dawn, letting her hair fall forward to hide her face-a girlish habit.
Raistlin leaned toward almost unconsciously, his hand stretching out, trembling, to touch the wondrous hair that seemed possessed of a life of its own, so vibrant and luxuriant was it. Then, seeing before his eyes his own dying flesh, he withdrew his hand quickly and sank back in his chair, a bitter smile on his lips. For what Laurana did not know, could not know, was that, in looking at her, Raistlin saw the only beauty he would ever see in his lifetime, Young, by elven standards, she was untouched by death or decay, even in the mage’s cursed vision.
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