“No, please do!” Earwig urged.
The man’s blue eyes shone deep red in the firelight. Deftly, with a graceful and fluid movement, he caught hold of one of the kender’s small hands that was sliding into one of the man’s own pouches.
“I’d keep that hand to myself, if I were you,” advised the black-skinned man.
“I’m sorry,” said Earwig, staring at his hand as though it had leaped from his body and was now acting on its own. “I can’t think how it came to be there.”
“No harm done. My friends and I”-the man indicated the two other men standing next to him-“were wondering where you got that magnificent necklace?” He pointed to the silver cat’s skull that hung around the kender’s neck.
“What necklace?” Earwig said, confused. Truth to tell, he’d forgotten all about it. “Oh, this?” He glanced down, saw it, and held the charm out for the men to admire. “It’s an heirloom, been in my family for days.”
“That’s too bad,” said the black-skinned man. His eyes gleamed as red as the ruby eyes in the charm’s skull. “We were hoping that you might remember where you got it, so that we could get one for ourselves.”
“Well, I can’t, but you can have this one,” offered Earwig, who loved giving presents. He tried to unfasten the chain. It wouldn’t give. “That’s odd. Uh, well, I’m sorry, sir. I guess you can’t have it.”
“Yes, we’re sorry, too,” the leader said in a soft voice. He leaned down, nearer Earwig, and the kender saw that the man’s red-glowing eyes were slightly slanted. “Take your time. Think about where you got it. We have all night.”
“Well, I don’t!” Earwig snapped. He was beginning to tire of the conversation. Besides, there was no telling what trouble Caramon was getting himself into without the kender around to keep an eye on him. Earwig moved to push past the three men, but they blocked his way. One of them put a rough hand on the kender’s arm.
“We can drag the information out of you and your guts along with it!”
“Could you really do that?” Earwig asked, thinking things might be getting interesting again. “Drag out my guts? How? Through my mouth? Wouldn’t it be sort of messy-”
The man growled, his grip on Earwig’s arm tightened painfully.
“Wait!” the black-skinned man ordered. “You’re positive, kender, that you can’t think how you came by the necklace?”
Back to the necklace again. Earwig jerked his arm free. Now he was beginning to get irritated.
“No, I can’t! Really! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must be getting back.”
The kender took a step toward the three men, giving every indication that if they didn’t move, he was going to walk through them. The leader stared down at him. The red eyes flashed. Suddenly, with a fluid and graceful bow, he glided to one side of the door. His henchmen stepped back, out of the kender’s way.
“If you remember how you came by the necklace, please tell us,” whispered the smooth voice as the kender walked past him.
When Earwig turned to reply, he saw, to his amazement, that the men were gone.
Sitting alone, Raistlin was seized with a coughing fit. His breath refused to enter his lungs. He felt himself begin to lose consciousness. His head swayed slightly and he looked down into his cup, where he saw the remainder of his medicine, the leaves sticking to the bottom. Reaching out with a skeletal hand, he clutched at the passing barmaid.
“Hot water!” he gasped.
Maggie stared at the hand clasping her apron, the hand colored gold and as thin as death.
“Are you ill, sir? Can I help?”
“Water!” Raistlin snarled.
The woman, half-afraid, rushed to fill the order.
Raistlin slumped over, his head buried in his arms. Motes of light danced before his eyes, as he had seen at an illusionist’s show once-dancing, spinning, sparkling, changing color, shape, form, but always illusory, always unreal, no matter how strongly he willed it to be different. He thought of how often he wanted things to be different, to change because he desired them to change. He thought of how many times he’d been disappointed.
Why couldn’t he have been given the physical strength to match his mental strength? Why couldn’t he be handsome and winning and make people love him? Why had he been forced to sacrifice so much for so little?
“So little now,” Raistlin said to himself. “But I will gain more as time goes by. Par-Salian promised that my strength would someday shape the world!”
He fumbled at his side for the bag of herbs. Who knew but what this might cure him? He had thought he was feeling stronger. But his weak hand would not obey his command, and it occurred to Raistlin that he required Caramon’s help.
I don’t need him, the mage thought with dull defiance. The lights in the room dimmed with the darkness covering his eyesight. Listening to himself, he realized how childish he sounded. His lips twisted in a bitter smile. Very well, I need him now. But there will come a time when I won’t!
The barmaid brought him his water, setting the pitcher down quickly, wanting to leave, wanting to stay. Maggie didn’t like the mage with the gold skin and wizard’s staff and the terrifying eyes that stripped away the soul. She didn’t like him, yet she was fascinated by him. He was so frail, so weak, yet-somehow-so strong.
“I’ll pour the water for you, sir, shall I?” she asked in almost a whisper.
Gasping, almost unable to lift his head, Raistlin nodded and clutched the cup with both hands. He drank deeply, his tongue numbed, the lack of sensation caused by his faintness removing any discomfort from the heat. He emptied the cup and let out a long, steady breath. The mage leaned against the back wall of the tavern, his eyes closed to the world.
Caramon found him thus when he returned. The warrior slid quietly into the booth, thinking his brother asleep.
“Caramon?” Raistlin asked without opening his eyes.
“Yeah, it’s me. You want to go upstairs now?” The warrior’s words were slurred, and his breath reeked of the foul-smelling liquor.
“In a moment. Which way is Mereklar from here?”
“North. Almost due north.”
North. Without opening his eyes, Raistlin could see the white line running north, leading him, guiding him.
Impaling him.
Chapter 4
Raistlin knew he was dreaming, and the dream terrified him-he’d dreamed it many times before-but he couldn’t force himself to wake. Something inside him, stronger than his own will, demanded that he give in.
The young mage left his bed, went to the door, stepped through the door, opened the door, closed the door, and walked into the gray mist that shrouded the hallway of the inn. Looking back, he could not see Caramon but he could see Caramon breathing peacefully in his sleep.
The mage took to the stairs that led down to the main hall. In his hand was the Staff of Magius, though he didn’t remember taking it with him.
He needed light. The way was terrifyingly dark except for the white line that flowed beneath him with power and for the golden thread that connected him with another. “Shirak,” he whispered.
The line guided him, directing his steps. He wandered the hallways and pathways of the inn and the surrounding areas, which were covered by gray mists that moved and roiled with unseen life. Ahead lay the one he sought, the one who had the answers to so many of his questions, the lifebringer and the destroyer.
Fantastic winged beasts-red, black, green, and blue-flew across his path, disturbed from their dreams by his wanderings, the staff’s light waking them. The beasts gazed at him with hate-filled, hungry eyes. They wanted to destroy him, but could not. Not now, not this day.