"Belzor! What a crock. There are gods, Caramon. Powerful gods. Gods who will punish you if you do something they don't like. But they'll reward you, too, if you serve them."
"Are you serious?" Caramon asked, staring at his sister. "No offense, but I've never heard you talk like that before."
Kitiara turned from the window. Walking over, her strides long and purposeful, she planted her hands on the table and looked into Caramon's face.
"Come with me!" she said, not answering his question. "There's a city up north called Sanction. Big things are happening there, Caramon. Important things. I plan to be part of them, and you can, too. I came back on purpose to get you."
Caramon was tempted. Traveling with Kitiara, seeing the vast world outside of Solace. No more backbreaking farm work, no more hoeing and plowing, no more forking hay until his arms ached. He'd use his arm for sword work, fighting goblins and ogres. Spending his nights with his comrades around a fire, or snug in a tavern with a girl on his knee.
"What about Raistlin?" he asked.
Kit shook her head. "I had hoped to find him stronger. Can he work magic yet?" "I. I don't think so," said Caramon.
"Odds are he won't ever be able to use it, then. Why, the mages I've heard of are practicing their skills at the age of twelve! Still, I'm sure I could get a job for him. He's well schooled, isn't he? There's a temple I know about. They're looking for scribes. Easy work and fat living. What do you say? We could leave as soon as Raistlin is well enough to travel."
Caramon allowed himself one more glimpse of walking around this town called Sanction, armor clanking, sword rattling on his hip, the women admiring him. He put the vision away with a sigh.
"I can't, Kit. Raist would never leave that school of his. Not until he's ready to take some sort of test that they give in a big tower somewhere."
"Well, then, let him stay," Kitiara said, irritated. "You come alone."
She eyed Caramon, giving him almost the same look he'd imagined from the women in Sanction. But not quite. Kit was sizing him up as a warrior. Self-conscious, he stood straighter. He was taller than the boys his age, taller than most men in Solace. The heavy farm labor had built up his muscles.
"How old are you?" Kit asked. "Sixteen."
"You'd pass for eighteen, sure. I could teach you what you'd need to know on our way north. Raistlin will be fine here on his own. He's got the house. Your father left it to you two, didn't he? Well, then! There's nothing stopping you."
Caramon might be gullible, he might be thickheaded-as his brother often told him he was-and slow of thought. But once he had made up his mind about something, he was as immovable as Prayer's Eye Peak.
"I can't leave Raistlin, Kit."
Kitiara frowned, angry, not accustomed to having her will thwarted. Folding her arms across her chest, she glared at Caramon. Her booted foot tapped irritably on the floor. Caramon, uncomfortable beneath her piercing gaze, ducked his head and whipped the eggs right out of the bowl.
"You could talk to Raistlin," Caramon said, his voice muffled by his shirt collar, into which he was speaking. "Maybe I spoke out of turn. Maybe he'll want to go."
"I'll do that," Kitiara said, her tone sharp. She was pacing the length of the small room.
Caramon said nothing more. He dumped what remained of the eggs into a skillet and placed it over the fire. He heard Kit's booted footfalls sound hollowly on the wood, winced at a particularly loud and angry stomp. When the eggs were cooked, the two sat down to breakfast in silence.
Caramon risked a glance at his sister, saw her regarding him with an affable air, a charming smile.
"These eggs are really good," said Kit, spitting out small bits of shell. "Did I ever tell you about the time the bandit tried to stab me in my sleep? What you did reminded me of the story. We'd had a hard fight that day, and I was dead tired. Well, this bandit."
Caramon listened to this story and to many other exciting adventures during the day. He listened and enjoyed what he heard-Kit was an excellent storyteller. Every so often, Caramon would go to the bedroom to check on Raistlin and find him slumbering peacefully. When Caramon returned, he would hear yet another tale of valor, daring, battles fought, victory, and wealth won. He listened and laughed and gasped in all the right places. Caramon knew very well what his sister was trying to do. There could be only one answer. If Raistlin went, Caramon would go. If Raistlin stayed, so did Caramon.
That evening, Raistlin woke. He was weak, so weak that he couldn't lift his head from the pillow without help. But he was lucid and very much aware of his surroundings. He didn't appear all that surprised to see Kitiara.
"I had dreams about you," he said.
"Most men do," Kit returned with a grin and a wink. She sat down on the edge of the bed, and while Caramon fed his brother chicken broth, Kitiara made Raistlin the same proposition she'd made Caramon.
She wasn't quite as glib, talking to those keen blue, unblinking eyes that looked right through her and out the other side.
"Who is it you work for?" Raistlin asked when Kit had finished. Kitiara shrugged. "People," she said.
"And what temple is this where you would have me work? Dedicated to what god?" "It's not Belzor, that's for sure!" Kitiara said with a laugh.
When Caramon, spooning broth, tried to say something, Raistlin coldly shushed him. "Thank you, Sister," Raistlin said at last, "but I am not ready."
"Ready?" Kit couldn't figure out what he was talking about. "What do you mean, 'ready'? Ready for what? You can read, can't you? You can write, can't you? So you don't have any talent for magic. You gave it a good try. It's not important. There are other ways to gain power. I know. I've found them."
"That's enough, Caramon!" Raistlin pushed away the spoon. Wearily he lay back down on the pillows. "I need to rest."
Kit stood up. Hands on her hips, she glared at him. "That addle-pated mother of ours had you wrapped in cotton, for fear you'd break. It's time you got out, saw something of the world."
"I am not ready," Raistlin said again and closed his eyes.
Kitiara left Solace that night.
"I'm only making a short trip," she told Caramon, drawing on her leather gloves. "To Qualinesti. Do you know anything about that place?" she asked offhandedly. "Its defenses? How many people live there? That sort of thing?"
"I know elves live there," Caramon offered after a moment's profound thought.
"Everyone knows that!" Kit scoffed.
Putting on her cloak, she drew her hood over her head.
"When will you be back?" Caramon asked.
Kit shrugged. "I can't say. Maybe a year. Maybe a month. Maybe never. It depends on how things g°."
"You're not mad at me, are you, Kit?" Caramon asked wistfully. "I wouldn't want you to be mad."
"No, I'm not mad. Just disappointed. You'd have been a great warrior, Caramon. The people I know would have really made something of you. As for Raistlin, he's made a big mistake. He wants power, and I know where he could get it. If you both hang around here, you'll never be anything but a farmer, and he'll be-like that fellow Waylan-a coin-puking, rabbit-pulling conjurer who's the joke of half of Solace. It's such a waste."
She gave Caramon a slap on the cheek that was meant to be friendly but which left the red mark of her hand. Opening the door, Kit peered outside, looking in both directions. Caramon couldn't imagine what she was looking for. It was well past midnight. Most of Solace was in bed.
"Good-bye, Kit," he said.
"Good-bye, Baby Brother."