All these were questions that must be answered, and that was just for one of the staff's enchantments. Raistlin guessed there must be many more bound within the wood. In one sense, it was frustrating not to know. He would have liked to have had them delineated. Yet if the nature of the staff's powers had been presented to him, he still would have pursued his studies. The old manuscripts might be lying. They might be deliberately withholding information. He trusted no one but himself.
His studies might take him years, but.
A spasm of coughing interrupted his work. The cough was painful, debilitating, frightening. His windpipe closed, he could not breathe, and when the paroxysms were very bad, he had the terrible feeling that he would never be able to breathe again, that he would suffocate and die.
This was one of the bad ones. He fought, struggled to breathe. He grew faint and dizzy from lack of air, and when at last he was able to draw a breath with a certain amount of ease, he was so exhausted from the effort that he was forced to rest his head on his arms on the table. He lay there, almost sobbing. His injured ribs hurt him cruelly, his diaphragm burned from coughing.
A gentle hand touched his shoulder.
"Raist? Are. are you all right?"
Raistlin sat upright, thrust aside his brother's hand.
"What a stupid question! Even for you. Of course I am not all right, Caramon!" Raistlin dabbed at his lips with a handkerchief, drew it back stained with blood. He swiftly concealed the handkerchief in a secret pocket of his new red robes.
"Is there anything I can do to help?" Caramon asked, patiently ignoring his brother's ill humor.
"You can leave me alone and quit interrupting my work!" Raistlin returned. "Are you packed? We leave within the hour, you know."
"If you're sure you're well enough." Caramon began. Catching his brother's irritated and baleful gaze, he bit his tongue. "I'll. go pack," he said, though he was already packed and had been for the past three hours.
Caramon started to leave, tiptoeing out of the room. He fondly imagined that he was being extremely quiet. In reality, with his rattling, jingling, clanking, and creaking, he made more noise than a legion of mountain dwarves on parade.
Reaching into the pocket, Raistlin drew forth the handkerchief, wet with his own blood. He gazed at it for a dark, brooding moment.
"Caramon," he called.
"Yes, Raist?" Caramon turned around, pathetically anxious. "Is there something I can do for you?"
They would have many years together, years of working together, living together, eating together, fighting together. Caramon had seen his twin kill him. Raistlin had seen himself kill.
Hammer blows. One after the other.
Raistlin sighed deeply. "Yes, my brother. There is something you can do for me. Par-Salian gave me a recipe for a tisane that he believes will help ease my cough. You will find the recipe and the ingredients in my pouch, there on the chair. If you could mix it for me."
"I will, Raist!" Caramon said excitedly. He couldn't have looked more pleased if his twin had bestowed a wealth of jewels and steel coins upon him. "I haven't noticed a teakettle, but I'm sure there must be one around here somewhere. Oh, here it is. I guess I didn't see it before. You keep working. I'll just measure out these leaves. Whew! This smells awful! Are you sure?. Never mind," Caramon amended hurriedly. "I'll make the tea. Maybe it'll taste better than it smells."
He put on the kettle, then bent over the teapot, mixing and measuring the leaves with as much care as a gnome would take on a Life Quest.
Raistlin returned to his reading.
Magius struck the ogre on the head with his staff. I charged in to save him, for ogre's are notoriously thick-skulled, and I could not see that the wizard's walking staff would inflict much damage. To my surprise, however, the ogre keeled over dead, as if it had been struck by a thunderbolt.
Raistlin carefully noted the occurrence, writing: The staff apparently increases the force of a blow.
"Raist," said Caramon, turning from watching for the teapot to boil, "I just want you to know. About what happened. I understand."
Raistlin lifted his head, paused in his writing. He did not look at his brother, but gazed out the window. The Forest of Wayreth surrounded the tower. He looked out upon withering leaves, leafless branches, rotted and decayed stumps.
"You are never to mention that incident to me or to anyone else, my brother, so long as you live. Do you understand?"
"Sure, Raist," Caramon said softly, "I understand." He turned back to his task. "Your tea's almost ready."
Raistlin closed the book he had been reading. His eyes burned from the strain of trying to decipher the scribe's old-fashioned handwriting, he was weary from the effort involved in translating the mixture of archaic Common and the military slang spoken among soldiers and mercenaries.
Flexing his hand, which ached from gripping the pen, Raistlin slid the volume about Magius into his belt for perusal during their long journey north. They were not returning to Solace. Antimodes had given the twins the name of a nobleman who was hiring warriors and who would, Antimodes said, be glad to hire a war mage as well. Antimodes was heading in that direction. He would be glad to have the young men ride with him.
Raistlin had readily agreed. He planned to learn all he could from the archmagus before they parted. He had hoped that Antimodes would apprentice him, and had even been bold enough to make the request. Antimodes had refused, however. He never took apprentices, or so he said. He lacked the patience. He added that there was little opportunity in the way of apprenticeships open these days. Raistlin would be far better studying on his own.
This was a prevarication (one could not say that a White Robe lied). The other mages who had taken the Tests had all been apprenticed. Raistlin wondered why he was the exception. He decided, after considerable thought, that it must have something to do with Caramon.
His brother was rattling the teapot, making a most ungodly racket, slopping boiling water all over the floor and spilling the herbs.
Would I go back to the days of my youth?
Then my body had seemed frail, but it was strong in comparison to this fragile assembly of bones and flesh that I now inhabit, held together only by my will. Would I go back?
Then I looked on beauty and I saw beauty. Now I look on beauty and I see it drowned, bloated, and disfigured, carried downstream by the river of time. Would I go back?
Then we were twins. Together in the womb, together after birth, still together but now separate. The silken cords of brotherhood, cut, dangle between us, never to be restrung. Would I go back?
Closing the volume of his precious notations, Raistlin picked up a pen and wrote on the cover:
I, Magus.
And, with a swift, firm stroke, he underlined it.
Coda
One evening, while I was absorbed in my usual task of chronicling the history of the world, Bertram, my loyal but occasionally inept assistant, crept into my study and begged leave to interrupt my work.
"Whatever is the matter, Bertram?" I demanded, for the man was as pale as if he'd encountered a gnome bringing an incendiary device into the Great Library.
"This, Master!" he said, his voice quavering. He held in his trembling hands a small scroll of parchment, tied with a black ribbon and sealed with black ink. Stamped upon the ink was the imprint of an eye.
"Where did this come from?" I demanded, though I knew immediately who must have sent it.
"That's just it, Master, " Bertram said, holding the scroll balanced on the tips of his fingers. "I don't know! One minute it wasn't there. And the next minute it was."