Caramon fell silent. Tika swallowed and wiped her hand across her face. ‘I—’ she began, but Caramon cut her off.
‘Wait a minute,’ he said. ‘Let me finish. I love you, Tika, as truly as any man loves any woman in this world. I want to make love to you. If we weren’t involved in this stupid war, I’d make you mine today. This minute. But I can’t. Because if I did, it would be a commitment to you that I would dedicate my life to keeping. You must come first in all my thoughts. You deserve no less than that. But I can’t make that commitment, Tika. My first commitment is to my brother.’ Tika’s tears flowed again—this time not for herself, but for him. ‘I must leave you free to find someone who can—’
‘Caramon!’ A call split the afternoon’s sweet silence. ‘Caramon, come quickly!’ It was Tanis.
‘Raistlin!’ said the big man, and without another word, ran out of the cave.
Tika stood a moment, watching after him. Then, sighing, she tried to comb her damp hair into place.
‘What is it?’ Caramon burst into the wagon. ‘Raist?’
Tanis nodded, his face grave.
‘I found him like this.’ The half-elf drew back the curtain to the mage’s small apartment. Caramon shoved him aside.
Raistlin lay on the floor, his skin white, his breathing shallow. Blood trickled from his mouth. Kneeling down, Caramon lifted him in his arms.
‘Raistlin?’ he whispered. ‘What happened?’
‘That’s what happened,’ Tanis said grimly, pointing.
Caramon glanced up, his gaze coming to rest on the dragon orb—now grown to the size Caramon had seen in Silvanesti. It stood on the stand Raistlin had made for it, its swirling colors shifting endlessly as he watched. Caramon sucked in his breath in horror. Terrible visions of Lorac flooded his mind. Lorac insane, dying...
‘Raist!’ he moaned, clutching his brother tightly.
Raistlin’s head moved feebly. His eyelids fluttered, and he opened his mouth.
‘What?’ Caramon bent low, his brother’s breath cold upon his skin. ‘What?’
‘Mine...’Raistlin whispered. ‘Spells...of the ancients...mine...Mine...’
The mage’s head lolled his words died. But his face calm, placid, relaxed, His breathing drew regular.
Raistlin’s thin lips parted in a smile.
4
Yuletide guests.
It took Lord Gunthar several days of hard riding to reach his home in time for Yule following the departure of the knights for Palanthas. The roads were knee-deep in mud. His horse foundered more than once, and Gunthar, who loved his horse nearly as well as his sons, walked whenever necessary. By the time he returned to his castle, therefore, he was exhausted, drenched, and shivering. The stableman came out to take charge of the horse personally.
‘Rub him down well,’ Gunthar said, dismounting stiffly. ‘Hot oats and—’ He proceeded with his instructions, the stableman nodding patiently, as if he’d never cared for a horse before in his life. Gunthar was, in fact, on the point of walking his horse to the stables himself when his ancient retainer came out in search of him.
‘My lord.’ Wills drew Gunthar to one side in the entryway. ‘You have visitors. They arrived just a few hours ago.’
‘Who?’ Gunthar asked without much interest, visitors being nothing new, especially during Yule. ‘Lord Michael? He could not travel with us, but I asked him to stop on his way home—’
‘An old man, my lord,’ Wills interrupted, ‘and a kender.’
‘A kender?’ Gunthar repeated in some alarm.
‘I’m afraid so, my lord. But don’t worry,’ the retainer added hastily. ‘I’ve locked the silver in a drawer, and your ladywife has taken her jewelry to the cellar.’
‘You’d think we were under siege!’ Gunthar snorted. He did, however, go through the courtyard faster than usual.
‘You can’t be too careful around those critters, my lord,’ Wills mumbled, trotting along behind.
‘What are these two, then? Beggars? Why did you let them in?’ Gunthar demanded, beginning to get irritated. All he wanted was his mulled wine, warm clothes, and one of his wife’s backrubs. ‘Give them some food and money, and send them on their way. Search the kender first, of course.’
‘I was going to, my lord,’ Wills said stubbornly. ‘But there’s something about them—the old man in particular. He’s crackers, if you ask me, but he’s a smart crackers, for all that. Knows something, and it may be more than’s good for him—or us either.’
‘What do you mean?’
The two had just opened the huge, wooden doors leading into the living quarters of the castle proper. Gunthar stopped and stared at Wills, knowing and respecting his retainer’s keen power of observation. Wills glanced around, then leaned close.
‘The old man said I was to tell you he had urgent news regarding the dragon orb, my Lord!’
‘The dragon orb!’ Gunthar murmured. The orb was secret, or he presumed it was. The Knights knew of it, of course. Had Derek told anyone else? Was this one of his maneuvers?
‘You acted wisely, Wills, as always,’ Gunthar said finally. ‘Where are they?’
‘I put them in your war room, my lord, figuring they could cause little mischief there.’
‘I’ll change clothes before I catch my death, then see them directly. Have you made them comfortable?’
‘Yes, my Lord,’ Wills replied, hurrying after Gunthar, who was on the move again. ‘Hot wine, a bit of bread and meat. Though I trust the kender’s lifted the plates by now—’
Gunthar and Wills stood outside the door of the war room for a moment, eavesdropping on the visitors’ conversation.
‘Put that back!’ ordered a stern voice.
‘I won’t! It’s mine! Look, it was in my pouch.’
‘Bah! I saw you put it there not five minutes ago!’
‘Well, you’re wrong,’ protested the other voice in wounded tones. ‘It’s mine! See, there’s my name engraved—’
‘ “To Gunthar, my beloved husband on the Day of Life-Gift,”’ said the first voice.
There was a moment’s silence in the room. Wills turned pale. Then the shrill voice spoke, more subdued this time.
‘I guess it must have fallen into my pack, Fizban. That’s it! See, my pack was sitting under that table. Wasn’t that lucky? It would have broken if it had hit the floor—’
His face grim, Lord Gunthar flung open the door.
‘Merry Yuletide to you, sirs,’ he said. Wills popped in after him, his eyes darting quickly around the room.
The two strangers whirled around, the old man holding a crockery mug in his hand. Wills made a leap for the mug, whisking it away. With an indignant glance at the kender, he placed it upon the mantlepiece, high above the kender’s reach.
‘Will there be anything else, my lord?’ Wills asked, glaring meaningfully at the kender. ‘Shall I stay and keep an eye on things?’
Gunthar opened his mouth to reply, but the old man waved a negligent hand.
‘Yes, thank you, my good man. Bring up some more ale. And don’t bring any of that rotgut stuff from the servants’ barrels, either!’ The old man looked at Wills sternly. ‘Tap the barrel that’s in the dark corner by the cellar stairs. You know—the one that’s all cobwebby.’
Wills stared at him, open-mouthed.
‘Well, go on. Don’t stand there gaping like a landed fish! A bit dim-witted, is he?’ the old man asked Gunthar.
‘N-no,’ Gunthar stammered. ‘That’s all right, Wills. I—I believe I’ll have a mug, too—of—of the ale from the cask by the—uh—stairs. How did you know?’ He demanded of the old man suspiciously.