“Caramon goes of his own choosing,” Raistlin returned, smiling a twisted smile at the knight’s candor. “Don’t you, my brother?”
“Raistlin says we have to go, Sturm,” Caramon told the knight. “He says Flint and Tanis won’t be able to find the gate to Thorbardin without the secret key that lies in Skullcap.”
“There are many important reasons why they should win their way into Thorbardin, aren’t there, Sturm Brightblade?” Raistlin said with a slight cough.
Sturm regarded Raistlin intently.
“I will let you go on one condition,” said Sturm. Releasing his grip on his sword, he stood to one side. “I’m coming with you.”
Caramon cringed, fearing Raistlin would fly into a rage.
Instead, Raistlin gave Sturm a strange, narrow-eyed look, then said quietly, “I have no objection to the knight’s accompanying us. Do you, my brother?”
“No,” said Caramon, astonished.
“In fact, he might actually be of some use to me.” Raistlin pushed past the knight and continued along the trail that led through the woods.
Sturm retrieved a sack that, by the clanging sounds emanating from it, held the bulk of his armor. The knight wore the breastplate with the rose and kingfisher, symbol of the Solamnic knighthood, and his helm. He carried the rest.
“Does Tanis know?” Caramon asked in a low voice, as Sturm joined him on the trail.
“He does. I shared with him my suspicion that Raistlin would go off on his own,” Sturm replied, positioning the sack more comfortably on his shoulder.
“Did… uh… Tika say anything to him?”
Sturm smiled. “So you told her, but did not tell Tanis?”
Caramon flushed deeply. “I wasn’t going to tell anyone. Tika kind of cornered me. Is she very angry?” he asked wistfully.
Sturm didn’t answer. He smoothed his long mustaches, the knight’s way of avoiding an unpleasant discussion.
Caramon sighed and shook his head. “I’m surprised Tanis didn’t try to stop Raist.”
“He thinks there is something in what Raistlin claims, though he didn’t want to say so in front of Hederick. If we can find the key to the gates of Thorbardin and if we can find the gates in time, we are to bring word to him immediately.”
“How will we know where to find him?” Caramon asked. “He’s going trekking off over the mountains with Flint.”
Sturm shot Caramon a penetrating glance. “It’s interesting that Raistlin didn’t think to ask Tanis that, isn’t it? My guess is that he plans to seek out Thorbardin himself if he finds the key. What do you think he might be after in Skullcap?”
“I… I don’t know,” Caramon said, staring down at his boots tromping over the snow-rimed grass.
“I never thought about that.”
Sturm gave him a sharp look. “No,” he said quietly, “I don’t suppose you would.”
“Raist says we are going to help the people!” Caramon said defensively. Sturm grunted. Then he said in a low voice, “How does he know where he’s going? How does he know the way? Or are we wandering out here aimlessly?”
Caramon watched his twin walking confidently along the trail between the trees. The mage walked more slowly now, feeling his way along, sometimes tapping the ground with the butt of his staff like a blind man, yet, he didn’t appear lost. He walked with purpose and determination, and when he did stop to look around he would stop only briefly then continue on.
“He said he knows a way, a secret way.” Caramon saw Sturm’s look and added. “Raist knows lots of things. He reads books.”
Caramon was immediately sorry he’d spoken, for that brought up the unwelcome thought of the night-blue spellbook. He quickly banished the reminder. If Raistlin had found guidance in a book belonging to an evil wizard, Caramon didn’t want to know about it.
“Maybe Flint told him,” Caramon said, and the possibility cheered him. “Yeah, that’s it. Flint must have told him.”
Sturm knew it was hopeless to point out the obvious—Flint wouldn’t tell Raistlin the time of day. Caramon had lied to himself about his twin for so many years that he wouldn’t know the truth now if it gave him a swift kick in the backside.
Ranging ahead of the others, Raistlin knew perfectly well that his brother and the knight were talking about him. He even knew what they were saying. He could have quoted them both word for word. He didn’t care. Let the knight malign him. Caramon would defend him. Caramon always defended him. It was nauseating the way Caramon always defended him. Sometimes Raistlin found himself wishing Caramon would grow a backbone, stand up to him, defy him. Then he reflected that if this happened, Caramon would be of no more use to him, and he still needed Caramon. The day would come when he would be able to live independent of his twin but not now. Not yet.
Raistlin cast an oblique glance at the two men over his shoulder—his brother trotting along like a pack animal; Sturm Brightblade, impoverished knight, carrying his nobility around in a sack. Why is he coming along? Raistlin wondered. He found the notion intriguing. Certainly the noble knight is not worried about my well being! He professes to care for Caramon, yet Sturm knows perfectly well that Caramon is a seasoned warrior. My brother can take care of himself. Sturm has some reason of his own for tagging along with us. I wonder what that can be… Why is he so interested in Skullcap?
For that matter, Raistlin asked himself, why am I?
He did not know the answer.
Raistlin scanned the rock wall of the mountain that stood dead ahead of them blocking the way. He was searching for the image that was still shadowy in his mind, yet grew clearer and more distinct with every step he took. He knew what he was looking for—or rather, he would know it when he saw it. He knew a secret way that led to Skullcap, yet he didn’t know it. He had walked this path before, and he’d never before set foot on it. He’d been here, and he hadn’t. He’d done this without doing it.
The day of the dragon’s attack on the grove, Raistlin had been writing a new spell into his spellbook when suddenly the quill pen had, seemingly of its own volition, scrawled the word Skullcap across the page.
Raistlin had stared at the word. He had stared at the quill and at his hand that had wielded it. He had torn out the ruined page and tried again to write down his spell. Again the pen had written Skullcap. Raistlin had thrown down the pen and searched his mind and at last recalled where he’d heard that name, in what connection.
Fistandantilus. Skullcap was the wizard’s tomb.
An unpleasant thrill had tingled through Raistlin’s body, a tingle in the blood as of a rising fever. He’d never thought about it, but Skullcap must be close to where they were camped. What wonders might he find there! Ancient magical artifacts, the wizard’s spellbooks like the one he had already acquired.
That was the reward, yet Raistlin had the uneasy impression that he was being guided to Skullcap for darker and more sinister reasons. If so, he would deal with those when the time came, which was why he’d decided to take Sturm along.
Sturm Brightblade was an arrogant, insufferable prig who never took a piss but that he didn’t have to pray over it. Nevertheless, he was a deft hand with a sword. Skullcap might indeed be nothing more than a crumbling old ruin, just as Raistlin had claimed to the assembly last night. Even he didn’t believe it.
“So Raistlin’s gone off to Skullcap,” said Flint, adding dourly, “Good riddance, I’d say, but he’s taking two good men, Caramon and Sturm, to their deaths along with him.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” said Tanis. “Are you ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” Flint grumbled. “I want to go on record as saying this is all a waste of time. If we do find the gate, which I doubt, the dwarves will never open it for us. If they do open it, they won’t let us in. The hearts of the Thorbardin clans are hard and cold as the mountain itself. The only reason I’m going, Half-Elven, is to have the chance to say ‘I told you so’.”