The sickroom was dark and hot, the air fetid and unpleasant to breathe and to smell. Rosamun lay on her back on the bed, staring up at nothing. Yet she saw something, apparently, for her eyes moved and changed expression. Sometimes the eyes were wide, the pupils dilated, as if what she saw terrified her. At these times, her breathing grew rapid and shallow. At other times, she was calm. Sometimes she would even smile, a ghastly smile that was heartbreaking to see.
She never spoke, at least that they could understand. She made sounds, but these were guttural, incoherent. She never closed her eyes. She never slept. Nothing roused her or caused her to look away from whatever visions she saw, visions that held her enthralled.
Her bodily functions continued. Raistlin cleaned up after her, bathed her. It had been three days since Gilon's burial, and Raistlin had not left his mother's side. He slept on a pallet on the floor, waking at the least sound she made. He talked to her constantly, telling her funny stories about the pranks the boys played at school, telling her about his own hopes and dreams, telling her about his herb garden and the plants he grew there.
He forced her to take liquid by dipping a cloth in water, then holding it to her lips and squeezing it into her mouth, only a trickle at a time lest she choke on it. He had tried feeding her, too, but she had been unable to swallow the food, and he had been forced to give this up. He handled her gently, with infinite tenderness and unflagging patience.
Caramon stood in the doorway, watching the two of them. Raistlin sat beside his mother's bed, brushing out her long hair and reciting to her stories of her own girlhood in Palanthas.
You think you know my brother, Caramon said, talking silently to a line of faces. You, Master Theobald, and you, Jon Farnish, and you, Sturm Brightblade, and all the rest of you. You call him "Sly" and "Sneak." You say he's cold and calculating and unfeeling. You think you know him. I know him. Caramon's eyes filled with tears. I know him. I'm the only one.
He waited another moment until he could see again, wiping his eyes and his nose on the sleeve of his shirt, slopping the wine over himself in the process. This done, he drew in a last, deep breath of fresh air and then entered the dark and dismal sickroom.
"I brought some food, Raist," said Caramon.
Raistlin glanced at his brother, then turned back to Rosamun. "She won't eat it."
"I. uh. meant it for you, Raist. You got to eat something. You'll get sick if you don't," Caramon added, seeing his brother's head start to move in negation. "And if you get sick, what will I do? I'm not a very good nurse, Raist."
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.