Their father-Gilon Majere, a big man with a broad and cheerful face, a face whose natural placidity was marred by a worry line between his brows-had not come home that night. He had traveled far from Solace on a job for a lord with an estate on Crystalmir Lake. Their mother was awake, but she had been awake since midnight.
Rosamun sat in her rocking chair, a skein of wool in her thin hands. She would wind the wool into a tight ball, tear it apart, and then rewind it. All the while she worked, she sang to herself in an eerie low-pitched voice or sometimes paused to hold conversations with people who were not visible to anyone except her. If her husband-a gentle, caring man-had been at home, he would have persuaded her to leave off her "knitting" and go to bed. Once in bed, she would continue to sing, would be up again in an hour.
Rosamun had her good days, her lucid periods, when she was cognizant of much of what was going on around her, if not particularly interested in participating in it. The daughter of a wealthy merchant, she had always relied on servants to do her bidding. Now they could not afford servants, and Rosamun was inept at running a household herself. If she was hungry, she might cook something. There might be enough left over for the rest of the family, provided she didn't forget about the food completely and leave it to burn in the kettle.
When she fancied she was doing the mending, she would sit in her chair with a basket of torn clothes in her lap and stare out the window. Or she might put her worn cloak about her shoulders and go "visiting," wandering the shaded walkways to call on one of their neighbors, who generally kept an eye out for her and managed to be gone when Rosamun rang the bell. She had been known to forget where she was and would stay in someone's house for hours until her sons found her and fetched her home.
Sometimes she would recall stories about her first husband, Gregor uth Matar, a rogue and a rake, of whom she was stupidly proud and still loved, though he had abandoned her years before.
"Gregor was a Solamnic knight," she was saying, talking to her unseen listeners. "And he did so love me. He was the most handsome man in Palanthas, and all the girls were mad about him. But he chose me. He brought me roses, and he sang songs beneath my window and took me riding on his black horse. He is dead now. I know it. He is dead now, or he would have come back to me. He died a hero, you know."
Gregor uth Matar had been declared dead, at any rate. No one had seen or heard from him in seven years, and most believed that if he wasn't decently dead he should have been. His loss was not generally mourned. He might well have been a knight of Solamnia, but if so he had been banished from that strict order years ago. It was known that he, his new wife, and their baby daughter had left Palanthas by night and in a hurry. Rumor followed him from Solamnia to Solace, whispering that he had committed murder and had escaped the hangman only by means of money and a fast horse.
He was darkly handsome. Wit and charm made him a welcome companion in any tavern, as did his courage-not even his enemies could fault him on that-and his willingness to drink, gamble, and fight. Rosamun spoke truly about one of his traits. Women adored him.
An avowed fragile beauty, with auburn hair, eyes the color of a summer forest, and silken white skin, Rosamun had been the one to conquer him. He had fallen in love with her with all of his passionate nature, had remained in love with her longer than might have been expected. But when love died, it could never, for him, be rekindled.
They had lived well in Solace. Gregor made periodic journeys back to Solamnia, whenever money was running low. His highly placed family apparently paid him well to keep out of their lives. Then came the year he returned empty-handed. Rumor held it that Gregor's family had finally cut him off. His creditors pressing him hard, he traveled north to Sanction to sell his sword to whoever would have him. He continued to do so, coming back home at intervals but never staying long. Rosamun was wildly jealous, accused him of leaving her for other women. Their quarrels could be heard throughout most of Solace.
And then one day Gregor left and never returned. Rumor agreed that he was probably dead, either from a sword thrust in front or, more likely, a knife in the back.
One person did not believe him to be dead. Kitiara lived for the day when she would be able to leave Solace and set out in search of her father.
She talked of this as she did what she could, in her impatient way, to ready her little brother for his journey to his new school. Raistlin's few clothes-a couple of shirts, some trousers, and some oft- mended stockings-were done up in a bundle, along with a thick cloak for the winter.
"I'll be gone by spring," Kit was saying. "This place is too stupid for words." She lined her brothers up for inspection. "What do you think you're doing? You can't go to school dressed like that!"
Grabbing Raistlin, she pointed at his bare and dusty feet. "You have to wear shoes."
"In the summer?" Caramon was stunned.
"Mine don't fit me," Raistlin said. He'd had a small growth spurt that spring. He was now as tall as his twin, if only about half his weight and a quarter of his girth.
"Here. Wear these." Kit hunted out a pair of Caramon's old shoes from last winter and tossed them at Raistlin.
"They'll pinch my toes," he protested, regarding them glumly.
"Wear them," Kit ordered. "All the other boys in the school wear shoes, don't they? Only peasants go barefoot. That's what my father says."
Raistlin made no reply. He slid his feet into the worn shoes.
Picking up a dirty dishcloth, Kit dipped it in the water bucket and scrubbed Raistlin's face and ears so vigorously that he was certain at least half his skin must be missing.
Squirming free of his sister's grasp, Raistlin saw that Rosamun dropped her ball of wool on the floor. Her beauty had faded, like a rainbow fades when the storm clouds overtake the sun. Her hair was drab and lusterless, her eyes had too bright a luster, the luster of fever or madness. Her pale skin had a gray cast to it. She stared vaguely at her empty hands, as if she were wondering what to do with them. Caramon picked up the wool, handed it to her.
"Here, Mother."
"Thank you, child." She turned her vacant gaze to him. "Gregor's dead, do you know that, child?" "Yes, Mother," Caramon said, not really hearing her.
Rosamun would often make incongruous statements like this. Her children were used to them and generally ignored them. But this morning Kitiara rounded on her mother in sudden fury. "He's not dead! What do you know? He never cared for you! Don't say things like that, you crazy old witch!"
Rosamun smiled and twined her wool and sang to herself. Her boys stood nearby, quiet, unhappy. Kit's words hurt them far more than they hurt Rosamun, who wasn't paying the slightest attention to her daughter.
"He's not dead! I know it and I'm going to find him!" Kitiara declared, her vow low and fervent.
"How do you know he's alive?" Caramon asked. "And if he is, how will you find him? I've heard there are lots of people in Solamnia. Even more than here in Solace."
"I'll find him," Kit replied confidently. "He told me how." She gazed at them speculatively. "Look, this is probably the last time you'll see me for a long while. Come here. I'll show you something if you promise not to tell."
Leading them into the small room where she slept, she produced from her mattress a crudely crafted, handmade leather pouch. "In here. This is my fortune."
"Money?" Caramon asked, brightening.