The cat moved faster. The twins rounded a corner behind it and stopped suddenly, staring wide-eyed.
“Name of the Abyss!” Caramon cried aloud, steadying himself against the cavern entrance with his hand.
Raistlin said nothing, but simply stared in the staff’s soft radiance. The black cat turned to face them, eyes red in the staff’s light.
The chamber in which they stood was huge-hundreds of feet long. Numerous passages led in and out, black gashes in the rock. Small rivers collected in ponds that glittered with an oily reflection. And everywhere they looked they saw the cats of Mereklar. Thousands of cats lay resting on their sides without sound, without motion. Raistlin knelt down, holding the staff close.
“Look,” he said, pointing.
From every mouth and nose poured a small stream of blood.
“They’re all … dead!” Caramon gasped.
Raistlin examined one of the small bodies. Putting a thin, golden hand on tiger-striped fur, he stroked it gently. He moved to another body, then another, lifting heads and peering into shining eyes.
“I don’t understand,” Caramon said softly, “What could have killed them all? Poison?”
“They’re not dead.”
“They sure look dead to me.”
“I assure you they are quite alive. However, their minds are gone.”
Caramon went to the nearest cat and touched its fur. He felt warmth under his hand, a tiny heart still beating, breath barely entering and leaving.
The black cat leaped in front of him, hunching down on its forepaws. It spat at him.
“All right.” Caramon rose to his feet and backed away. “I’m not going to hurt them. You’re right, Raist. They are alive!”
“In answer to your first question, they were not poisoned. There is no poison I know of that could do this.”
“What do you think it was?”
“The only answer I have is magic, though a spell that could cause this kind of destruction is beyond my means.”
Caramon paused, considering the implications. “Then you think this is the work of a wizard?”
“A wizard of extraordinary power, perhaps greater than Par-Salian.”
Caramon shivered, recalling the powerful master of the Tower of High Sorcery.
The black cat watched and listened intently to the brothers talk, never taking its bright, reflecting eyes from them.
Raistlin raised his arms and began to speak the strange, spidery language of magic. The room glowed-a dull, purple aura that covered everything, including the corridor through which they had walked.
“There,” the mage said in satisfaction. “We can return here whenever we wish.” He turned to go.
“But-”
“There is nothing more we can do. I cannot save these cats. I must go back to my room and think. And you, if you will remember, have an engagement tonight.” Raistlin headed down the corridor.
Caramon stood, looking back, a sadness in his heart. Removing the yellow sequined ball from his pocket, he laid it down gently on the blood-wet floor.
“I’m sorry,” he started to say to the black cat, but it was gone.
Chapter 16
“I wonder where Earwig is. Maybe he got lost,” Caramon said, straightening the room. His mother had always made him clean up after himself, and the fighter did not let old habits die.
“Kender never get lost, perhaps because they never truly know where they are.”
Raistlin sat at the desk in front of the window in the companions’ room, writing something on a roll of parchment. Caramon, when he was through with his own cleaning, did his brother’s. The mage was also unwilling to let old habits die.
“What are you doing?”
The red cowl was pulled back from Raistlin’s face, allowing the afternoon sun to fall on his golden features. He rested his quill, scowling at Caramon with a sideways glance before returning to his work.
“If you must know, I am asking Lady Shavas for access to her library tonight.”
“That’s great!” Caramon said heartily, relieved.
“Why that tone, my brother?”
“It’s just … I thought …”
“You thought I was going to sneak into her house like a thief?”
“Well …” the fighter began uncomfortably.
“You’re a dolt, Caramon.”
The big man kept silent. Usually his twin was the more intuitive of the two, but this time Caramon knew precisely what his brother was feeling. The pangs of jealously were sharp and left festering wounds.
Raistlin finished his writing and sat, waiting for the ink to dry. A knock on the door startled them both.
“Were you expecting anyone, Caramon?”
“No,” said the warrior, sliding his sword from its scabbard. “You?”
“No. Enter!” Raistlin called out.
The messenger, instead of opening the door, slid something under the crack between frame and floor. Footsteps retreated rapidly away from the room.
The mage retrieved the message, breaking the wax seal with a loud snapping sound. Turning to the light at the window, he held the parchment in both hands, reading.
“What is it?” the warrior asked, still holding the sword.
“It is a letter from Lady Shavas. She is waiting for you downstairs,” Raistlin said in even tones.
Caramon saw that his brother’s golden hands trembled. “Anything else?”
Raistlin crumpled the message into a ball. “It says that I may use the councillor’s library tonight.”
“I am so very glad you could accept my offer for this evening, Caramon,” said the Councillor of Mereklar.
The two sat in Shavas’s private carriage, guided by her personal driver.
“My p-pleasure,” Caramon stammered, gazing at his companion across the gulf that stretched between their seats.
Shavas wore a gown similar to the one she had worn when the companions first met her, only this one left her white shoulders bare. She had wrapped around her a silk shawl-the black one, Caramon noted nervously-with a lace pattern woven into the fabric, fringe hanging from the ends. From her neck hung the opal pendant.
“Are you cold, my lady? You may have my cloak,” the warrior offered, thinking his gesture gentlemanly.
Before Shavas could answer, he unclasped the black cloak from around his neck and tossed it clumsily over her body. Straightening the folds, Caramon accidentally touched the woman’s neck, her skin as soft as delicate clouds. He felt her warmth, a flush of life beneath his fingers.
“Sorry,” he apologized, blushing and returning to his seat.
Shavas smiled, arranging his cloak around her. The red inner lining of the fighter’s cloak made the woman seem magical-as dark and glittering as the three moons of Krynn.
I am being a real dolt, just like Raistlin said, Caramon thought with chagrin. Why can’t I relax when I’m with her? I’ve never felt this way around any woman before. It’s because she’s a lady-a true lady. The most beautiful I’ve ever seen. Just like the royal ladies in the stories about the Knights of Solamnia. Sturm, my old friend, how would you act? How does a knight treat a lady?
Caramon didn’t realize that he was staring at her until he saw Shavas lower her head, her cheeks mantling with a faint flush.
“I–I’m sorry. I know I’m acting like an idiot, but I can’t help it. You are so lovely!” Caramon stammered.
“Thank you, my brave warrior,” Shavas said. Reaching out to him almost shyly, she allowed her fingers to brush against his hand. He trembled at her touch. “I am so glad you could come with me tonight. You help me forget about … about-”
The woman shivered, her face became pale.
“Don’t talk about it,” said Caramon firmly.
“No, you’re right. I won’t.” Shavas lifted her head bravely. “And I have nothing to fear, have I? Not with you by my side!”