Called upon to speak, to answer such a startling question, one that he had in truth never even considered, Caramon opened his mouth, but it was Raistlin who answered.
"No, he has not."
Par-Salian looked at the two of them. "I see. Very well. Thank you for coming, Caramon. And now, Raistlin Majere, will you be so good as to accompany Justarius? He will take you the area where the Test begins."
Raistlin's relief was so great that he was momentarily faint and dizzy, obliged to close his eyes until he regained his balance. He paid scant attention to the Red Robe who stepped forward, aware only that it was an older man who walked with a pronounced limp.
Raistlin bowed to Par-Salian. Spellbook in hand, he turned to accompany the Red Robe. Caramon took a step to follow his twin.
Par-Salian was quick to intervene. "I am sorry, Caramon, but you cannot accompany your brother."
"But you told me to come," Caramon protested, fear giving him the voice he had lacked.
"Yes, and it will be our pleasure to entertain you during your brother's absence," Par-Salian said, and though his tone was pleasant, there was no arguing with his words.
"Good, good luck, Raist," Caramon called out awkwardly.
Raistlin, embarrassed, ignored his brother, pretended he had not heard him. Justarius led the way into the shadows of the hall.
Raistlin was gone, walking where his brother could not follow.
"I have a question!" Caramon cried. "Is it true that sometimes the initiates die-"
He was talking to a door. He was inside a room, a very comfortable room that might have been lifted from one of the finest inns in Ansalon. A fire burned on the hearth. A table, loaded with food, all of Caramon's favorite dishes, and a most excellent ale.
Caramon paid no attention to the food. Angry at what he considered high-handed treatment, he tried to open the door.
The handle came off in his hands.
Now extremely fearful for his brother, suspecting some sort of sinister intent on Raistlin's life, Caramon was determined to rescue his twin. He hurled himself at the door. It shook beneath his weight but did not budge. He beat at the door with his fists, shouting for someone to come and release him.
"Caramon Majere."
The voice came from behind him.
Startled and alarmed, Caramon turned around so fast that he tripped over his own feet. Stumbling, he clutched at the table and stared.
Par-Salian stood in the center of the room. He smiled reassuringly at Caramon.
"Forgive my dramatic arrival, but the door is wizard-locked, and it's such a bother removing the spell and then putting it on again. Is the room comfortable? Is there anything we might bring you?"
"Damn the room!" Caramon thundered. "They told me he might die."
"That is true, but he is aware of the risks."
"I want to be with him," said Caramon. "I'm his twin. I have that right."
"You are with him," said Par-Salian softly. "He takes you everywhere."
Caramon didn't understand. He wasn't with Raistlin, they were trying to trick him, that's all. He brushed the meaningless words aside.
"Let me go to him." He glowered and clenched his fists. "Either you let me go or I'll tear down this Tower stone by stone."
Par-Salian stroked his beard to hide his smile. "I'll make a bargain with you, Caramon. You permit our tower to remain standing, unharmed, and I'll permit you to watch your brother as he takes his Test. You will not be allowed to help or assist him in any way, but perhaps watching him may alleviate your fears."
Caramon thought it over. "Yeah. All right," he said. Once he knew where Raistlin was, Caramon figured he could go to him if he needed help.
"I'm ready. Take me to him. Oh, and thanks, but I'm not thirsty now."
Par-Salian was pouring water from a pitcher into a bowl.
"Sit down, Caramon," he said.
"We're going to go find Raist-"
"Sit down, Caramon," Par-Salian repeated. "You want to see your twin? Look into the bowl." "But it's only water."
Par-Salian passed his hand over the water in the bowl, spoke a single magic word, scattered a few crumbled leaves of plants into the water.
Sitting down, planning to first humor the old man and then grab him by his scrawny throat, Caramon looked into the water.
Chapter 3
Raistlin trudged down a lonely, little-traveled road on the outskirts of Haven. Night was falling, a stiffening breeze swayed the treetops, sent autumn leaves flying. There was a smell of lightning in the humid air. He had been traveling all day on foot, he was tired and hungry, and now a storm was approaching. All thought of spending the night sleeping on the ground vanished from his mind.
A tinker he had met earlier had told him, in response to a question, that there was an inn up ahead, an inn with the droll name of the Inn Between. The tinker added the warning that the inn had an evil reputation, was known to be frequented by the wrong sort of crowd. Raistlin didn't care what sort of crowd drank there, so long as the inn had a bed beneath a roof and they let him sleep in it. He had little fear of thieves. It must be obvious from his shabby robes that he carried nothing of value. The very sight of those robes-the robes of a magic-user-would make the ordinary footpad think twice before accosting him.
The Inn Between, so called because it was located equidistant between Haven and Qualinesti, did not look propitious. The paint on its hanging sign was faded past recognition-no great loss to the art community. The owner, having expended his wit on the name, had not been able think of any way to illustrate it beyond a huge red X in the middle of a squiggle that might have been a road.
The building itself had a sullen and defiant air, as if it were tired of being teased about its clever name and would, in a fit of ill temper, tumble down upon the head of the next person who mentioned it. The shutters were half closed, giving its windows a suspicious squint. Its eaves sagged like frowning brows.
The door opened with such reluctance that Raistlin, on the first try, thought the inn might have closed down. He could hear voices and laughter inside, smell the scent of food. A second, more forceful push, caused the door to relinquish. It opened grudgingly, with a screech of rusted hinges, slammed shut quickly behind him, as much as to say, "Don't blame me. I did my best to warn you."
The laughter stopped at Raistlin's entrance. The inn's guests turned their heads to look at him, consider him, prepare to take whatever action they deemed appropriate. The bright light of a roaring fire partially dazzled him. He could see nothing for a moment until his eyes adjusted, and therefore he had no idea whether any of the guests had taken an unusual interest in him. By the time he could see, they had all gone back to doing whatever it was they were doing.
Most of them, that is. One group, consisting of three cloaked and hooded figures, seated on the far side of the room, paid him considerable attention. When they resumed their conversation, they put their heads together, talking excitedly, occasionally lifting their heads to cast glittering-eyed glances in his direction.
Raistlin found an empty booth near the fire, sat down thankfully to rest and warm himself. A glance at the plates of his fellow guests showed that the food was plain fare. It didn't look particularly tasty, but didn't appear likely to poison him either. Stew being the only dish offered, he ordered that, along with a glass of wine.
He ate a few bites of unnameable meat, then pushed the bits of potato and coagulated gravy around with his spoon. The wine was surprisingly good, with a taste of clover. He relished it and was regretting that his meager purse could not afford him a second glass when a cool pitcher appeared at his elbow.