"Laura has breakfast ready downstairs," Tika pressed. "There's still some eggs and sausage, if you're hungry."
In years gone by, the mention of food would have made him lunge out of bed like a berserker. Now, though, he raised his head, peered at her, then flopped back down. "I'm not hungry," he grumbled.
Caramon's boots were propped by the door. Tika grabbed one, weighed it in her hands, and heaved it at him. It struck his side with a meaty smack.
"Ow!" he exclaimed, sitting up. Tika tried not to notice how his flesh-once hard as stone-jiggled and jounced. "Huma's teeth, Tika, that hurt!"
"There's another boot, right here," Tika said, nudging it with her foot. "Get up."
He slumped. "What for?"
"What for?" Tika was growing livid. "It's Spring Dawning, you great ox! The festival starts at midday. You've got to tap the spring brew before then."
"Let Laura do it," Caramon said. Laura was their elder daughter, and well on her way to running the Inn.
Tika shook her head. "Laura can't carry the kegs up from the cellar. Neither can I. Caramon, what in the Abyss is wrong with you?"
"You want to know?" he snapped, surprising her with his sudden anger. "Fine. I'm tired of watching people die."
She was silent a moment. "Is this about old Dezra?" she asked. Dezra Sepadin had worked at the Inn even longer than Tika. She'd been a close friend to Tika and Caramon. They'd named their younger daughter after her.
Dezra had also been a midwife. One night this past Frostcold, she'd gone out late to help the weaver's wife give birth to her second son, and had caught a terrible coughing sickness. She'd died soon after, with Tika and Caramon at her bedside.
Caramon shrugged. "Partly. I miss them all, Tika-my old friends, my brother, our sons."
Tika chewed her lip, looking away. Losing dear ones was another part of growing old, but it had been particularly hard on Caramon. His closest friends, the six he'd adventured with as a youth, were all gone. Sturm Brightblade and Flint Fire-forge had died during the War of the Lance; his half-sister Kitiara had perished soon after in a failed attempt to conquer the Lordcity of Palanthas. His twin brother, Raistlin, with whom he'd shared a bond Tika could never understand, had been sealed inside the Abyss after failing to overthrow Takhisis, the Queen of Darkness; he'd returned during the Chaos War, ten years ago, only to accompany the gods when they departed Krynn. The same war had also claimed the lives of Tanis Half-Elven and Tasslehoff Burrfoot, as well as Caramon and Tika's eldest sons, Tanin and Sturm. The boys' graves lay beneath a vallenwood not far from the Inn.
Others had died since. Riverwind of Que-shu and his daughter Brightdawn… Gunthar uth Wistan… and now old Dezra. Caramon had lost many friends, it was true.
"We aren't all gone," Tika told him. "You've got me, for one thing. Goldmoon and Laurana are around. And you still have three children, you know-not to mention two grandchildren."
As Caramon pondered this, Tika thought she saw him brighten. They didn't see Palin, their surviving son, as often as they liked-he spent most of his time at the Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth, seeking new magic to replace the sorcery that had vanished when the gods left. He still visited Solace a few times each year, though, and he and his wife Usha were always sure to bring along their own children, Ulin and Linsha, for Tika and Caramon to spoil. Then there was Laura, who was indispensible around the Inn. And Dezra, their youngest, who-well, who was a regal pain in the backside. But that was another set of worries altogether.
Caramon looked less miserable, but he still hadn't budged. Tika reached for the other boot.
"All right," he said, chuckling. "Go easy. I'm getting up." He kicked loose the blankets and swung out of bed. His knees popped loudly, making him wince. "Go back downstairs. I'll be along."
She studied him a moment, then shook the boot at him, unable to keep from grinning. "You'd better be. If I have to come back up here, I'll find something harder than this to throw at you."
"I believe it," he said.
Tika dropped the boot and left the room.
Caramon stood quietly beside the bed, listening as her footsteps creaked down the stairs. Sighing, he went to fill the washbasin.
"Closing time!" Caramon shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth. "Everyone finish your drinks!"
If the folk who'd crowded the Inn for the tapping of the spring ale heard him, they gave no sign. They laughed and shouted, downing long draughts of foamy, golden beer. It was a good batch this year, with an earthy flavor that came from moss that grew on the vallenwoods' highest branches. Many travelers in Abanasinia went out of their way to stop at Solace, just to taste Caramon's ale.
It had been Borlos the minstrel, a fixture around the Inn for years, who'd first tasted the batch. He and his friends, Clemen and Osier, had shown up at daybreak just so they could have that honor. He'd quaffed it carefully, thinking long and hard.
"Not bad," he'd declared. "A bit sour, though."
Caramon's face had fallen, and Borlos had grinned. "Just kidding, big guy," he'd said, raising his tankard. "This is some of the best you've ever brewed. Bard's honor."
Caramon had filled a second tankard and carefully dumped it over Borlos's head, to the crowd's delight.
He'd been busy ever since, pouring and handing drinks to Tika and Laura, who carried them to the thirsty townsfolk and brought back empty ones for Caramon to refill. Otik Sandath, the Inn's previous owner, had always made sure the first keg of spring beer was empty before closing up for the Spring Dawning festival. Fifty years later, the folk of Solace weren't about to let such a fine tradition die. Mug after mug, Caramon had poured until the barrel ran dry.
Now came the hard part.
"Come on!" Caramon yelled again, banging the bar with his fist. "It's all gone! Get yourselves down to the fair!"
If anything, the crowd got even louder. Somewhere in the back-Caramon couldn't see for the press of bodies-some youngsters were playing pipes and drums. Many of the drinkers were singing along. Borlos had joined them for a while with his lute, but had since lost interest and joined Clemen and Osier at their usual table by the kitchen, to drink and play cards.
Realizing the crowd wasn't listening, Caramon threw up his hands in exasperation. Then, from the kitchen door, came a new sound: a loud, metallic crash, as if two fully armored Knights of Solamnia were beating each other with maces. Near the door, Borlos and his comrades clapped hands over their ears and winced. The crowd quickly fell still, and Caramon grinned, relieved, as a woman pushed through the throng. There was an iron skillet in each of her hands, and a ferocious look on her face. Reaching the middle of the room, she slammed the pans together again with a loud, ringing clang.
Unlike most taverns, the Inn of the Last Home had no bouncer. It didn't need one: It had Tika Waylan Majere.
Like her husband, Tika had fought against the Dragon Highlords in the War of the Lance, some forty years ago. Unlike Caramon, however, she'd never trained as a warrior, relying instead on the art of bashing opponents with whatever heavy, blunt object was available. That skill had served her well after the war. Anyone who thought of causing trouble at the Inn quickly thought otherwise when Tika brandished one of her skillets-if they wanted to keep all their teeth.
"Didn't you hear my husband?" Tika asked. "We're closed."
With precision a Knight of Takhisis would have admired, the crowd set down its tankards and headed out the door. Soon, only Caramon, Tika, and the card-players remained.
"Four of Flames," said Borlos, throwing a card down on the table. He raked a stack of coins toward him as Clemen and Osier groaned. "I take this trick."
Tika glared at them. "I'll count to ten," she declared. "One. Two."
"We were just going," Borlos said.