The bartender, a large, unpleasant-looking man, cleaned glasses with a dirty towel behind the bar. Earwig could see that every one of the men carried weapons-knives and swords, some sheathed, others laid across tables, exposed and ready for trouble.
Standing higher on his toes, Earwig saw one of the barmaids, a girl of about twenty with dark, straight hair and attractive features, bend down to pick up a broken mug. One of the men, dressed in better clothes than the rest, hit her with the flat of his sword. He sent her stumbling into the window frame, causing the other men in the room to howl with laughter. Struggling to stand, the barmaid looked out the window. She and the curious kender made eye contact. The woman fell backward, a look of surprise on her face. Earwig continued watching with interest.
The barmaid walked warily up to the man who had hit her. “I think you’ve had enough, my lord. You better go back to your home.”
“I’ll have another!” was the slurred reply. “You can’t throw me out!”
“Catherine,” called the bartender, glowering. “Go wake the stableboy. Send him for Councillor Shavas.”
At the sound of the name, the man appeared to reconsider. Grumbling, he pushed a chair back noisily and headed for the door, his steps unsteady. The wooden door banged open. Scratching his stomach with his right hand and the back of his neck with his left, the man looked around the alley and saw Earwig.
A street light shone full on the kender. The man, staring at Earwig’s neck, lurched forward.
“Where’d you get that?” he demanded hoarsely, staggering down the short flight of stairs that led from the inn. “Itsh mine!”
Earwig, startled, put his hand to the cat’s-skull necklace and frowned. He didn’t like this man.
“You drunken sot!” the kender taunted, getting a firm grip on his hoopak. “I wouldn’t tell you if it were day or night. I wouldn’t tell you if your pants were unlaced, which, by the way, they are. I wouldn’t-”
The man reached down, caught hold of the kender by the shirt, and pulled a dagger from his own belt.
“I kill your kind, vermin!”
“What with? Your stinking breath?”
Using all his strength, Earwig brought his hoopak up between the man’s legs, striking him in the groin. The man doubled over in pain, clutching himself. The hoopak fell a second time, this time on the man’s head, knocking him unconscious.
“Oh, dear, now you’ve done it!” said a voice.
Earwig saw the barmaid standing in the doorway. She sounded worried, but he saw that she was trying hard not to laugh.
“You better go!” she said softly, hurrying down the stairs. “He’s an important man in this town. There might be trouble.”
“You mean from those guys in there? I can handle them!” said Earwig stoutly.
“No, not them. Just go, quickly. And … thank you,” she whispered in a rich voice, soft and pleasant. Leaning over, she kissed the kender swiftly on the cheek. Then, hearing shouts inside, she waved at him and hurried back up the stairs, closing the door behind her.
Earwig stood in the alley, his hand pressed against his cheek, a look of rapture on his face.
“Wow! No wonder Caramon likes kissing girls. That’s even more fun than picking a lock!”
Caramon stood over his brother, staring at him anxiously. “Are you sure you’re all right? What happened, Raist? What was that?”
“I don’t know,” the mage said weakly. “I’m not certain. Be silent, Caramon. Let me think.”
For some reason, his mind was pulling him back to their childhood. Raistlin had the vague feeling that something like this had happened to him before. Long ago.
He recalled brightly colored clothes and music and eating too many sweets … cookies … He seemed to smell fresh-baked cookies …
The Festival of the Eye!
Raistlin sat up quickly, causing his head to grow light and his sight dim. He fell over sideways on the bed, closing his eyes, reaching for the staff as he often did when weakness came upon him. When he touched the black wood, a huge sphere of lightning appeared, surrounding his arm, lighting the room with blue flame.
Caramon cried out in alarm, but the room grew dark again as the last vestiges of magic expended itself, released and channeled into the labyrinths of power within the staff.
Raistlin sat up. A bitter smile twisted his lips as he recalled his youth-a time when he was a target for contempt.
The Festival of the Eye. Once a year, the children were allowed to pretend they were adults. He’d worn the robes of a wizard, crudely sewn by the impatient and clumsy hands of his older half-sister, Kitiara. She had outfitted Caramon as a warrior, complete with wooden shield and sword, then took the twins from door to door, begging for the special cookies that were made in honor of that night. It had been the brothers’ last festival together with their sister. Kit had left them soon after, to make her own way in the world.
That night, when they were returning home to gloat over their treasures in private, Raistlin had suddenly become ill, pain clenching his stomach and sides. His brother and half-sister had been forced to carry him. When he spat to remove a bitter taste in his mouth, a small gout of blue flame had shot out. He could still recall the looks of alarm he’d seen on the faces of his siblings.
The next morning, Raistlin was fine. The sickness had never occurred again, and neither the brothers nor their sister had ever told anyone else what had happened.
Raistlin thought that now he was beginning to understand.
“Hand me my pack,” he ordered his brother.
Mystified, Caramon obeyed.
The mage rummaged in it. Pulling out a small book, he flipped through the pages. Caramon, peering over his brother’s shoulder, saw nothing but rows and columns of numbers printed on the yellowing pages. Phases and positions of the moons were also indicated.
Some of the dates had large circles around some of the numbers, when pictures of the two moons created a single dot on the page. Raistlin continued to leaf through the book, stopping when he reached the middle. Opening the book wide, making the binding crack in complaint, he laid it down on the bed in front of him. After a moment of silent calculation, he closed it and tossed it into his pack.
“What?” asked Caramon.
“The Festival of the Eye,” said Raistlin. “Remember? A long time ago, when we were little?”
Caramon’s eyes crinkled in thought. Suddenly, his mouth sagged. “I’ll be damned,” he murmured, staring at his brother. “What does it mean? It’s just a holiday, that’s all.”
“To most of you, it is,” Raistlin said, somewhat bitterly. “It’s a time to dress up and break the routine of dull existence. But to us, to wizards, it is much, much more.”
“Yeah, I remember,” said Caramon. “You’re supposed to offer your services free.”
“Bah! That’s the least of it!” Raistlin snarled impatiently. “It is, in reality, a time of great magical power. It began untold ages ago when three sorcerers of tremendous and unparalleled skill gave their lives to their crafts, ending their existence in one final, ultimate expenditure that drained their souls. They used the energy to create a force infinitely more potent than any one could ever summon on his own.”
Caramon shifted uncomfortably, as he often did when his twin discussed his arcane craft.
“Certain mystical texts stated that the wizards were each dedicated to one of the three alignments,” Raistlin continued. “Good, neutral, and evil-the incantations required all three members from the Great Balance of the World. Some of the books say that the wizards cast the spell to gamble on the future for their deities, hoping that their particular alignment would wrest control of the power when the time came.” Raistlin shrugged. “The sorcerers chose the game, but the gods cast the dice. The wizards died, the energy remained pent up. The texts say that the energy will be released only when the Great Eye is in the heavens.”