Raistlin pulled the hood back from over his head. The twin moons’ shimmering light reflected into his eyes-the eyes with the pupils of hourglasses, the eyes that saw everything decay, wither, and die. It glistened off the golden skin and the prematurely white hair that looked ghastly on a young man of twenty-one. Slowly, Raistlin approached the thief.
The man screamed and struggled desperately in Caramon’s tight grip.
Reaching out one gold-skinned hand, Raistlin placed five fingers on the thief’s forehead. The man writhed beneath the mage’s touch and began to howl.
“Shut up,” Caramon grunted, “and listen to my brother!”
“When you see the man in the black hood, you will tell him that my brother and I are coming to Mereklar and that we will not rest until we have found him. Do you understand that?”
“Yes! Yes!” cried the man pitifully.
“And now I put this curse upon you. The next time you take a life in cold blood, the ghost of the murdered man will rise up and follow you. By day it will dog your steps. By night it will hound your dreams. You will do anything to try to rid yourself of it, but to no avail. The ghost will drive you to madness and, finally, at the end, it will cause you to turn your foul knife on yourself.”
Raistlin removed his hand. “Let him go, Caramon.”
The big man released the assassin, who fell to his knees. He remained crouched on the ground, glancing furtively at the brothers. Caramon made a threatening gesture with his dagger, and the man leaped to his feet and dashed, panic-stricken, into the forest. For long minutes after, they could hear him crashing into trees and blundering into bushes.
“That was a horrible curse,” said Caramon, awed. “I didn’t know you could cast those kind of spells on people.”
“I can’t,” said Raistlin, then began to cough, doubling over with the spasms that racked his thin body.
He held out his arm to his brother, who gently took it and guided the mage back to his blankets.
“You mean … there’s not really a curse on him?” asked Caramon, confused. He assisted his twin to lie down.
“Oh, there is a curse on him,” said Raistlin, when he could speak again. “But I didn’t cast it.” The mage’s thin lips parted in a slight smile. “He will do that himself. Don’t just stand there gaping at me! I’m chilled to the bone. Go gather more wood. I will keep the staff lighted until you have built the fire.”
Caramon shook his head, not understanding.
Going to pick up the wood he had dropped during his attack on the killers, the warrior almost fell over Earwig’s sleeping roll. In the excitement, he had forgotten the kender. Caramon remembered the assassins standing over Earwig, their spears held high. Kneeling down, the warrior put his hand on the small, blanket-covered form.
“Earwig?” Caramon said worriedly.
From the depths of the blanket came a yawning sound, a stretching motion, and eventually a head popped out of the top. Looking around in sleepy confusion in the brightening early morning light, the sound-sleeping kender saw the hacked and bloodied corpses lying on the ground, broken weapons scattered about, the grass torn and churned by trampling feet.
Earwig’s mouth dropped open. His eyes bulged. He looked from Raistlin to Caramon wildly and back again. The kender threw back his head and began to wail.
“It’s all right, Earwig,” said Caramon soothingly. “Don’t cry. You’re safe. The killers are gone.”
“I know!” cried Earwig, flinging himself on the ground and kicking his feet in the sod. “Don’t rub it in!”
“What?” demanded the warrior, startled. “What’s the matter, then?”
“How could you, Caramon?” sobbed Earwig. “I thought we were friends! A fight-and you let me sleep through the whole thing!”
Chapter 2
Dawn broke, and Caramon’s optimistic prediction proved correct: it was, indeed, a fine day. The temperature rose to a comfortable level, warm enough for walking, but still cool enough to be pleasant. The sun, bright in a sky that was clear of clouds, clear of chaos, shone down upon the companions.
The dead bodies of the would-be assassins still lay in the clearing. Earwig, to make up for having missed last night’s action, was occupied in searching the bodies, “looking for some clue to tell us who these people were,” as he put it. In one of the thieves’ pockets he found a broach made from strands of gold woven together to look like rope. Opening the broach by a hidden catch only a kender would have discovered, Earwig found inside a collection of miniature musical instruments made of silver, bone, and ebony, perfectly detailed, waiting to be played by a tiny orchestra.
Closing the medallion and tossing it onto a blanket with the other “treasure,” Earwig went over to another body and saw three rings on the dead brigand’s hands, each of gold and glittering with diamonds, sparkling in the morning’s light. But what caught Earwig’s attention was a mysterious twist of wire that had fallen from the thief’s pocket.
The kender picked up the looped metal that twisted around and back into itself with no apparent purpose, with no specific form. Shaking the wire, he heard a small sound come from within-a sound of glass rattling against metal. He held it up to the light and saw a bead in the center of the coils. Earwig gazed at it for many minutes, fascinated by this mysterious object, until he grew bored and added it to his collection.
The kender went from body to body, collecting gold and diamonds and other precious things, holding them in his hand, feeling their weight and shape, only to toss them aside, forgotten, as he reached down to pick up an old writing quill with a bright silver tip, a piece of purple glass, and a wood carving of an eagle, no bigger than the middle of his palm. Worth and values set by other races mean nothing to kender. Curiosity makes them desire anything that enchants their eye, regardless of what they already hold in their hands.
“Well, did you find anything?” Caramon asked.
“That’s it,” said Earwig proudly, pointing at the blanket. “Well, aren’t you going to look at it?” he asked, noting Caramon’s hesitation.
“I guess so,” said the big man heavily, starting to kneel down. “But it shivers my skin to paw through possessions of the dead.”
“Why? You took their weapons.”
“That’s different.”
“How? I don’t understand-”
“It just is! All right?” Caramon glared at the kender.
“You are too squeamish, Brother,” said Raistlin in his soft voice, coming up to stand behind them. “Move over. You’re blocking the light. I have no superstitious fear of a dead man’s personal belongings.”
The mage bent down. His slender, delicate hands ran lightly over the objects scattered before him. Some he lifted and inspected with an expert eye. Earwig watched eagerly.
“Those are the biggest diamonds I’ve ever seen. Did you ever see any that big, Raistlin?”
“Glass,” remarked the mage, tossing the ring aside in contempt.
Earwig appeared slightly crestfallen, but cheered up again. “That golden chain is quite heavy, isn’t it, Raistlin?”
“It should be. It’s lead. What’s this?”
The mage lifted a silver charm between thumb and forefinger. Holding it in his palm, he exhibited it to his brother. Caramon, looking at it, made a face.
“Ugh! Who would wear that?”
“I would!” said Earwig, staring at the trinket longingly.
The charm was shaped into the likeness of a cat’s skull, with tiny rubies in the eye sockets.
“Which one was wearing this?” Raistlin asked.
Earwig thought. “None of them. I found it in the grass, over there.” He pointed near Raistlin’s neatly rolled-up blankets.
“The leader,” grunted Caramon.
“Yes,” Raistlin agreed, staring at the charm. A shudder passed through his body, his hand trembled. “It is evil, Caramon. A thing of darkness. And it is old. Its time stretches back before the Cataclysm.”