Awake to the silence, the dreadful silence.
He wanted to cry at the burial, but he did not. He forced the tears back down his throat. It wasn't that he was ashamed of them. He did not know for certain for whom he wept-for his dead mother or for himself.
He was not aware of the ceremony, was not aware of the passage of time. He might have been standing on the edge of that grave all his life. He knew it was over only when Caramon plucked at his sleeve. At that, it wasn't Caramon who convinced his twin to leave but the sound of the dirt clods striking the coffin, a hollow sound that sent a shudder through Raistlin.
He took a step, stumbled, and nearly fell into the grave. Caramon caught him, steadied him.
"Raist! You're burning up!" Caramon exclaimed in concern.
"Did you hear her, Caramon?" Raistlin asked anxiously, peering down at the coffin. "Did you hear her calling for me?"
Caramon put his arm around his twin. "We have to get you home," he said firmly.
"We must hurry!" Raistlin gasped, shoving aside his brother's hand. He seemed intent on leaping into the grave. "She's calling me."
But he couldn't walk properly. Something was wrong with the ground. It rolled like the back of a leviathan, rolled and pitched him off.
He was sinking, sinking into the grave. The dirt was falling on him, and still he could hear her voice.
Raistlin collapsed, fell to the ground at the graveside. His eyes closed. He lay unmoving in the mud and fallen leaves.
Caramon bent over him. "Raist!" he called, giving him a little shake.
His twin did not respond. Caramon glanced around. He was alone with his brother, except for the gravedigger, who was shoveling as rapidly as he could to get in out of the wet. The other mourners had left as soon as decently possible, heading for the warmth of their homes or the crackling fire in the Inn of the Last Home. They had spoken their final condolences hurriedly, not really knowing what to say. No one had known Rosamun very well, no one had liked her.
There was no one to help Caramon, no one to advise him. He was on his own. He bent down, prepared to lift his brother in his arms and carry him home.
A pair of shining black boots and the hem of a brown cloak came into his view.
"Hello, Caramon."
He looked up, thrust back his hood to see better. The rain poured down, streamed from his hair into his eyes.
A woman stood in front of him. A woman around twenty years of age, maybe older. She was attractive, though not beautiful. Her hair, beneath her hood, was black and curled damply around her face. Her eyes were dark and bright, perhaps a little too bright, shining with a diamond's hardness. She wore brown leather armor, molded to fit over her curvaceous figure, a green loose- fitting blouse, green woolen hose, and the shining black boots that came to her knees. A sword hung from her hip.
She seemed familiar. Caramon knew he knew her, but he didn't have time to sort through the lumberyard that was his memory. He mumbled something about having to help his brother, but the woman was now down beside him, kneeling over Raistlin.
"He's my brother, too, you know," she said, and her mouth twisted in a crooked smile.
"Kit!" Caramon gasped, recognizing her at last. "What are you- Where did you- How did-"
"Here, we better get him somewhere warm and dry," Kitiara interrupted, taking charge of the situation, much to Caramon's relief.
She was strong, as strong as a man. Between the two of them, they lifted Raistlin to his feet. He roused briefly, stared around with unfocused eyes, muttered something. His eyes rolled back, his head lolled. He lost consciousness again.
"He's. he's never been this sick!" Caramon said, his fear something real and alive inside him, squeezing his heart. "I've never seen him this bad!"
"Bah! I've seen worse," said Kitiara confidently. "Lots worse. I've treated worse, too. Arrow wounds in the gut, legs cut off. Don't worry," she added, her smile softening in sympathy for Caramon's anguish. "I fought Death before over my baby brother and I won. I can do it again if need be."
They carried Raistlin up the long flight of stairs to the boardwalk, made their way beneath the dripping tree branches to the Majeres' small house. Once inside, Caramon built up the fire. Kit stripped off Raistlin's wet clothes with swift, unblushing efficiency. When Caramon ventured a mild, embarrassed protest, Kitiara laughed.
"What's the matter, baby brother? Afraid this will shock my delicate feminine sensibilities? Don't worry," she added with a grin and a wink, "I've seen men naked before."
His face extremely red, Caramon helped his sister lay Raistlin down in his bed. He was shivering so that it seemed he might fall out. He spoke, but he made no sense and would occasionally cry out and stare at them with wide, fever dilated eyes. Kit rummaged through the house, found every blanket, and piled them over him. She placed her hand on his neck to feel his pulse beat, pursed her lips in a thoughtful frown, and shook her head. Caramon stood by, watching anxiously.
"Is that crone still around?" Kit asked abruptly. "You know, the one who talked to trees and whistled like a bird and kept a wolf for a pet?"
"Weird Meggin? Yeah, she's still around. I guess." Caramon was doubtful. "I don't go to that part of town much. Father doesn't-" He paused, swallowed, and began over. "Father didn't want us to go there."
"Father isn't around anymore. You're on your own now, Caramon," Kitiara returned with brutal frankness. "Go to Weird Meggin's and tell her you need elixir of willow bark. And hurry up. We've got to bring down this fever."
"Elixir of willow bark," Caramon repeated to himself several times. He put on his cloak. "Anything else?"
"Not right now. Oh, and Caramon"-Kitiara halted him as he stood in the open doorway-"don't tell anyone I'm back in town, will you?"
"Sure, Kit," Caramon answered. "Why not?"
"I don't want to be bothered by a lot of tittle-tattlers snooping around and asking questions. Now, go along. Wait! Do you have any money?"
Caramon shook his head.
Kitiara reached into a leather purse she wore on her belt, fished out a couple of steel coins, and tossed them to him. "On your way back from the old crone's, stop by Otik's and buy a jug of brandy. Is there anything in the house to eat?"
Caramon nodded. "The neighbors brought lots of stuff."
"Ah, I forgot. The funeral meats. All right. Go on. Remember what I said: tell no one I'm here."
Caramon departed, a little curious about his sister's injunction. After several moments of long and considered thought, he at last decided that Kitiara knew what she was doing. If word got out that she was in town, every gossip from here to the Plains of Dust would be snooping around. Raistlin needed rest and he needed quiet, not a stream of visitors. Yes, Kit knew what she was doing. She would help Raistlin. She would.
Caramon generally took a positive view of things. He was not one to fret over what had happened in the past or worry about what might come in the future. He was honest and trusting, and like many honest, trusting people, he believed that everyone else was honest and trustworthy. He put his faith in his sister.
He hastened through the pouring rain to Weird Meggin's, who lived in a tumbledown shack that sat on the ground beneath the vallenwood trees, not far from the disreputable bar known as The Trough. Concentrating on his errand, muttering "willow bark, willow bark," to himself over and over, Caramon almost tripped over an ancient gray wolf lying across the threshold.
The wolf growled. Caramon backed up precipitously.