Raistlin looked up at his brother. "You don't give yourself enough credit, my brother. I remember times when I was ill. You would make shadow pictures on the wall for me. Rabbits." His voice died away.
Caramon's throat closed, choked by tears. He blinked them away quickly and held out the plate. "C'mon, Raist. Eat. Just a little. It's Otik's potatoes."
"His panacea for all the ills of the world," Raistlin said, his mouth twisting. "Very well."
He replaced the brush on a small nightstand. Taking the plate, he ate some of the potatoes and nibbled a little on the ham. Caramon watched anxiously. His face fell in disappointment when Raistlin handed back the plate, still more than half filled with food.
"Is that all you want? Are you sure? Can I get you something else? We've got lots."
Raistlin shook his head.
Rosamun made a sound, a pitiful murmur. Raistlin moved swiftly to attend her, bending over her, talking to her soothingly, helping her to lie more comfortably. He moistened her lips with water, chaffed the thin hands.
"Is. is she any better?" Caramon asked helplessly.
He could tell at a glance she wasn't. But he hoped he might be wrong. Besides, he felt the need to say something, to hear his own voice. He didn't like it when the house was so strangely quiet. He didn't like being cooped up in this dark, unhappy room. He wondered how his brother could stand it.
"No," Raistlin said. "If anything, she is worse." He paused a moment, and when he spoke next, his voice was hushed, awed. "It's as if she's running down a road, Caramon, running away from me. I follow after her, I call to her to stop, but she doesn't hear me. She doesn't pay any attention to me. She is running very fast, Caramon."
Raistlin stopped talking, turned away. He pretended to busy himself with the blankets.
"Take that plate back to the kitchen," he ordered, his voice harsh. "It will draw mice."
"I'll. I'll take the plate back to the kitchen," Caramon mumbled and hurried off.
Once in the kitchen, he flung the plate toward what he assumed was the table; he couldn't see very well for the blur in his eyes. Someone knocked on the door, but he ignored it, and after a while whoever it was went away. Caramon leaned against the fireplace, gulping in deep breaths, blinking very hard and fast, willing himself not to cry anymore.
Regaining his composure, he returned to the sickroom. He had news that would, he hoped, bring a small amount of cheer to his twin.
He found Raistlin seated once more by the bed. Rosamun lay in the same position, her staring eyes sunken in her head. Her wasted hands lay limp on the counterpane. Her wristbones seemed unnaturally large. Her flesh seemed to be slipping away with her spirit. She appeared to have deteriorated in just the few moments Caramon was gone. He shifted his gaze hurriedly away from her, kept it focused on his twin.
"Otik was here," Caramon said unnecessarily, for his brother had surely deduced this from the arrival of the potatoes. "He said that the Widow Judith left Solace this morning."
"Did she," Raistlin said, a statement, not a question. He looked around. A flicker of flame lit his red- rimmed eyes. "Where did she go?"
"Back to Haven." Caramon managed a grin. "She's gone to report us to Belzor. She left claiming he was going to come here and make us sorry we were ever born."
An unfortunate choice of phrase. Raistlin winced and looked quickly at their mother. Caramon took two swift steps, laid his hand on his brother's shoulder, gripped it hard.
"You can't think that, Raist!" he admonished. "You can't think that this is your fault!"
"Isn't it?" Raistlin returned bitterly. "If it hadn't been for me, Judith would have let mother alone. That woman came because of me, Caramon. I was the one she was after. Mother asked me to quit my magic once. I wondered why she should say such a thing. It was Judith, hounding her. If I had only known at the-"
"What would you have done, Raistlin?" Caramon interrupted. He crouched down beside his brother's chair, looked up at him earnestly. "What would you have done? Quit your school? Given up the magic? Would you have done that?"
Raistlin sat silent a moment, his hands absently plucking the folds of his worn shirt. "No," he said finally. "But I would have talked to mother. I would have explained to her."
He glanced at his mother. Reaching out, he took hold of the pitifully thin hand, squeezed it, not very gently, willing to see some response, even a grimace of pain.
He could have crushed that hand in his hand, crushed it like an empty eggshell, and Rosamun would have never so much as blinked. Sighing, he looked back at Caramon.
"It wouldn't have made any difference, would it, my brother?" Raistlin asked softly.
"None in the world," Caramon said. "None at all."
Raistlin released his mother's hand. The marks of his fingers were red on her pallid flesh. He took hold of his brother's hand and held it tightly. They sat together in silence for long moments, finding comfort in each other, then Raistlin looked quizzically at his brother.
"You are wise, Caramon. Did you know that?"
Caramon laughed, a great guffaw that broke like thunder in the dark room, alarmed him. He clapped his hand over his mouth, flushed red.
"No, I'm not, Raist," he said in a smothered whisper. "You know me. Stupid as a gully dwarf. Everyone says so. You got all the brains. But that's all right. You need them. I don't. Not so long as we're together."
Raistlin abruptly released his grip. He drew his hand away and averted his face. "There is a difference between wisdom and intelligence, my brother." His voice was cold. "A person may have one without the other. Why don't you go for a walk? Or go back to work for your farmer?"
"But, Raist-"
"It's not necessary for both of us to remain here. I can manage." Caramon rose slowly to his feet. "Raist, I don't-"
"Please, Caramon!" Raistlin said. "If you must know the truth, you fidget and fuss, and that drives me to distraction. You will feel better for the fresh air and exercise, and I will be better for the solitude."
"Sure, Raist," Caramon said. "If that's what you want. I'll. I guess I'll go see Sturm. His mother came to call and brought some fresh-baked bread. I'll just go and say thank you."
"You do that," Raistlin said dryly.
Caramon never knew what brought on these sudden dark and bitter moods, never knew what he'd said or done that quenched the light in his brother as surely as if he'd doused him with cold water. He waited a moment to see if his brother might relent, say something more, ask him to stay and keep him company. But Raistlin was dipping a bit of cloth into a pitcher of water. He held the cloth to Rosamun's lips.
"You must drink a little of this, Mother," he said softly. Caramon sighed, turned, and left. A day later, Rosamun was dead.
Chapter 4
The twins buried their mother in the grave next to their father. Only a few people stood with them at the burial. The day was wet and chill, with a touch of early autumn in the air. Rain poured down steadily, soaking to the skin those who gathered around the grave. The rain drummed on the wooden coffin, formed a small pool in the grave. The vallenwood sprig they planted drooped, sad and forlorn, half-drowned.
Raistlin stood bareheaded in the rain, though Caramon had several times anxiously urged him to cover his head with the hood of his cloak. Raistlin did not hear his brother's pleas. He heard nothing but the fall of the drops on the wooden coffin, a small coffin, almost that of a child. Rosamun had shrunk to skin and bones in those last terrible days. It was as if whatever she was seeing held her fast in its claws, gnawed her flesh, fed off her, devoured her.
Raistlin knew he himself was going to fall ill. He recognized the symptoms. The fever already burned in his blood. He was alternately sweating and shivering. His muscles ached. He wanted so much to sleep, but every time he tried, he heard his mother's voice calling to him, and he would be instantly awake.