"Your brother cannot stay," the Mage admonished softly.
"I am aware of that. Great One," Raistlin replied, with a hint of impatience.
"He will be well cared for in your absence," Par-Salian continued. "And of course, he will be allowed to carry home your valuables should the Test prove beyond your skill."
"Carry home… valuables…" Caromon's face became grim as he considered this statement. Then it darkened as he understood the full meaning of the Mage's words. "You mean-"
'Raistlin's voice cut in, sharp, edged. "He means, dear brother, that you will take home my possessions in the event of my death."
Par-Salian shrugged.
"Failure, invariably, proves fatal."
"Yes, you're right. I forgot that death could be a result of this..
ritual." Caramon's face crumped into wrinkles of fear. He laid his
hand on his brother's arm. "I think you should forget this, Raist. Let's go home."
Raistlin twitched at his brother's touch, his thin body shuddering. "Do I counsel you to refuse battle?" he flared. Then, controlling his anger, he continued more calmly. "This is my battle, Caramon. Do not worry. I will not fail."
Caramon pleaded. "Please, Raist… I'm supposed to take care of you-"
"Leave me!" Raistlin's control cracked, splintered, wounding his brother.
Caramon fell backward. "All right," he mumbled. "I'll… I'll meet you… outside." He flashed the Mage a threatening glance. Then he turned and walked out of the chamber, his huge battlesword clanking against his thigh.
A door thudded, then there was silence.
"I apologize for my brother," Raistlin said, his lips barely moving.
"Do you?" Par-Salian asked. "Why?"
The young man scowled. "Because he always… Oh, can't we just get on with this?" His hands clenched beneath the sleeves of his robe.
"Of course," the Mage replied, leaning back in his chair. Raistlin stood straight, eyes open and unblinking. Then he drew in a sharp breath.
The Mage made a gesture. There was a sound, a shattering crack. Quickly, the conjurer vanished.
A voice spoke from the nether regions. "Why must we test this one so severely?"
Par-salian's twisted hands clasped and unclasped. "Who questions the Gods?" He frowned. "They demanded a sword. I found one, but his metal is white hot. He must be beaten… tempered… made useful."
"And if he breaks?"
"Then we will bury the pieces," murmured the mage.
Raistlin dragged himself away from the dead body of the dark elf. Wounded and exhausted, he crawled into a shadowy corridor and slumped against a wall. Pain twisted him. He clutched his stomach and retched. When the convulsion subsided, he lay back on the stone floor and waited for death.
Why are they doing this to me? he wondered through a dreamy haze of pain. Only a young conjurer, he had been subjected to trials devised by the most renowned Mages-living and dead. The fact that he must pass these Tests was no longer his main thought; survival, however, was. Each trial had wounded him, and his health had always been precarious. If he survived this ordeal-and he doubted he would-he could imagine his body to be like a shattered crystal, held together by the force of his own will.
But then, of course, there was Caramon, who would care for him-as always.
HA! The thought penetrated the haze, even made Raistlin laugh harshly. No, death was preferable to a life of dependence on his brother. Raistlin lay back on the stone floor, wondering how much longer they would let him suffer…
.. And a huge figure materialized out of the shadowy
darkness of the corridor.
This is it, Raistlin thought, My final test. The one I won't survive.
He decided simply not to fight, even though he had one spell left. Maybe death would be quick and merciful.
He lay on his back, staring at the dark shadow as it drew closer and closer. It came to stand next to him. He could sense its living presence, hear its breathing. It bent over him. Involuntarily, he closed his eyes.
"Raist?"
He felt cold fingers touch his burning flesh.
"Raist!" the voice sobbed. "In the name of the gods, what have they done to you?"
"Caramon," Raistlin spoke, but he couldn't hear his own voice. His throat was raw from coughing.
"I'm taking you out of here," his brother announced firmly.
Raistlin felt strong arms slip under his body. He smelled the familiar smell of sweat and leather, heard the familar sound of armor creak and broadsword clank.
"No!" Raistlin pushed against his brother's massive chest with a frail, fragile hand. "Leave me, Caramon! My tests are not complete! Leave me!" His voice was an inaudible croak, then he gagged violently.
Caramon lifted him easily, cradled him in his arms. "Nothing is worth this. Rest easy, Raist." The big man choked. As they walked under a flickering torch, Raistlin could see tears on his brothers cheeks. He made one last effort.
"They won't allow us to go, Caramon!" He raised his head, gasping for breath. "You're only putting yourself in danger!"
"Let them come," Caramon said grimly, walking with firm steps down the dimly lit corridor.
Raistlin sank back, helpless, his head resting on Caramon's shoulder. He felt comforted by his brother's strength, though he cursed him inwardly.
You fool! Raistlin closed his eyes wearily. You great, stubborn fool! Now we'll both die. And, of course, you will die protecting me. Even in death I'll be indebted to you!
"Ah…"
Raistlin heard and felt the sharp intake of breath into his brother's body. Caramon's walk had slowed. Raistlin raised his head and peered ahead.
"A wraith," he breathed.
"Mmmm…" Caramon rumbled deeply in his chest-his battle-cry.
"My magic can destroy it," Raistlin protested as Caramon laid him gently on the stone floor. BURNING HANDS, Raistlin thought grimly. A weak spell against a wraith, but he had to try. "Move, Caramon! I have just enough strength left."
Caramon did not answer. He turned around and walked toward the wraith, blocking Raistlin's view.
Clinging to the wall, the conjurer clawed his way to a standing position and raised his hand. Just as he was about to expend his strength in one last shout, hoping to warn off his brother, he stopped and stared in disbelief. Caramon raised his hand. Where before he had held a sword, now he held a rod of amber. In the other hand, his shield hand, he held a bit of fur. He rubbed the two together, spoke some magic words-and a lightning bolt flashed, striking the wraith in the chest. It shrieked, but kept coming, intent on draining Cara-mon's life energy. Caramon kept his hands raised. He spoke again. Another bolt sizzled, catching the wraith in its head. And suddenly there was nothing.
"Now we'll get out of here," Caramon said with satisfaction. The rod and the fur were gone. He turned around. "The door is just ahead-"
'"How did you do that?" Raistlin asked, propping himself up against the wall.
Caramon halted, alarmed by his brother's wild, frenzied stare.
"Do what?" The fighter blinked.
"The magic!" Raistlin shrieked in fury. "The magic!"
"Oh, that," Caramon shrugged. "I've always been able to. Most of the time I don't need it, what with my sword and all, but you're hurt real bad and I've got to get you out of here. I didn't want to take time fighting that character. Don't bother about it, Raist. It can still be your little specialty. Like I said before, most of the time I don't need it."
This is impossible, Raistlin's mind told him.He couldn't have acquired in moments what it took me years of study to attain. This doesn't make sense. Fight the sickness and the weakness and the pain! Think! But it wasn't the physical pain that clouded Raistlin's mind. It was the old inner pain clawing at him, tearing at him with poisoned talons. Caramon, strong and cheerful, good and kind, open and honest. Everyone's friend.