Or perhaps the thin, white finger of a corpse, Caramon thought, looking down that silent corridor. Stabbing through the glass, the finger of moonlight ran the length of the carpeted floor and, reaching the length of the hall, touched him where he stood at the end.
“That’s his door,” the kender said in such a soft whisper Caramon could barely hear him over the beating of his own heart. “On the left.”
Caramon reached beneath his cloak once more, seeking the dagger’s hilt, its reassuring presence. But the handle of the knife was cold. He shuddered as he touched it and quickly withdrew his hand.
It seemed a simple thing, to walk down this corridor. Yet he couldn’t move. Perhaps it was the enormity of what he contemplated—to take a man’s life, not in battle, but as he slept. To kill a man in his sleep—of all times, the time we are most defenseless, when we place ourselves in the hands of the gods. Was there a more heinous, cowardly crime?
The gods gave me a sign, Caramon reminded himself, and sternly he made himself remember the dying Barbarian. He made himself remember his brother’s torment in the Tower. He remembered how powerful this evil mage was when awake. Caramon drew a deep breath and grasped the hilt of the dagger firmly. Holding it tightly, though he did not draw it from his belt, he began to walk down the still corridor, the moonlight seeming now to beckon him on.
He felt a presence behind him, so close that, when he stopped, Tas bumped into him.
“Stay here,” Caramon ordered.
“No—” Tas began to protest, but Caramon hushed him.
“You’ve got to. Someone has to stand on watch at this end of the corridor. If anyone comes, make a noise or something.”
But—
Caramon glared down at the kender. At the sight of the big man’s grim expression and cold, emotionless glare, Tas gulped and nodded. “I-I’ll just stand over there, in that shadow.” He pointed and crept away.
Caramon waited until he was certain Tas wouldn’t “accidentally” follow him. But the kender hunched miserably in the shadow of huge, potted tree that had died months ago. Caramon turned and continued on.
Standing next to the brittle skeleton whose dry leaves rustled when the kender moved, Tas watched Caramon walk down the hallway. He saw the big man reach the end, stretch out a hand, and wrap it around the door handle. He saw Caramon give it a gentle push. It yielded to his pressure and opened silently. Caramon disappeared inside the room.
Tasslehoff began to shake. A horrible, sick feeling spread from his stomach throughout his body, a whimper escaped his lips. Clasping his hand over his mouth so that he wouldn’t yelp, the kender pressed himself up against the wall and thought about dying, alone, in the dark.
Caramon eased his big body around the door, opening it only a crack in case the hinges should squeak. But it was silent. Everything in the room was silent. No noise from anywhere in the Temple came into this chamber, as if all life itself had been swallowed by the choking darkness. Caramon felt his lungs burn, and he remembered vividly the time he had nearly drowned in the Blood Sea of Istar. Firmly, he resisted the urge to gasp for air.
He paused a moment in the doorway, trying to calm his racing heart, and looked around the room. Solinari’s light streamed in through a gap in the heavy curtains that covered the window. A thin sliver of silver light slit the darkness, slicing through it in a narrow cut that led straight to the bed at the far end of the room.
The chamber was sparsely furnished. Caramon saw the shapeless bulk of a heavy black robe draped over a wooden chair. Soft leather boots stood next to it. No fire burned in the grate, the night was too warm. Gripping the hilt of the knife, Caramon drew it slowly and crossed the room, guided by the moon’s silver light.
A sign from the gods, he thought, his pounding heartbeat nearly choking him. He felt fear, fear such as he had rarely experienced in his life—a raw, gut-wrenching, bowel-twisting fear that made his muscles jerk and dried his throat. Desperately, he forced himself to swallow so that he wouldn’t cough and wake the sleeper.
I must do this quickly! he told himself, more than half afraid he might faint or be sick. He crossed the room, the soft carpet muffling his swift footsteps. Now he could see the bed and the figure asleep within it. He could see the figure clearly, the moonlight slicing a neat line across the floor, up the bedstead, over the coverlet, slanting upward to the head lying on the pillow, its hood pulled over the face to blot out the light.
“Thus the gods point my way,” Caramon murmured, unaware that he was speaking. Creeping up to the side of the bed, he paused, the dagger in his hand, listening to the quiet breathing of his victim, trying to detect any change in the deep, even rhythm that would tell him he had been discovered.
In and out... in and out... the breathing was strong, deep, peaceful. The breathing of a healthy young man. Caramon shuddered, recalling how old this wizard was supposed to be, recalling the dark tales he had heard about how Fistandantilus renewed his youth. The man’s breathing was steady, even. There was no break, no quickening. The moonlight poured in, cold, unwavering, a sign...
Caramon raised the dagger. One thrust—swift and neat—deep in the chest and it would be over. Moving forward, Caramon hesitated. No, before he struck, he would look upon the face—the face of the man who had tortured his brother.
No! Fool! a voice screamed inside Caramon. Stab now, quickly! Caramon even lifted the knife again, but his hand shook. He had to see the face! Reaching out a trembling hand, he gently touched the black hood. The material was soft and yielding. He pushed it aside.
Solinari’s silver moonlight touched Caramon’s hand, then touched the face of the sleeping mage, bathing it in radiance. Caramon’s hand stiffened, growing white and cold as that of a corpse as he stared down at the face on the pillow.
It was not the face of an ancient, evil wizard, scarred with countless sins. It was not even the face of some tormented being whose life had been stolen from his body to keep the dying mage alive.
It was the face of a young magic-user, weary from long nights of study at his books, but now relaxed, finding welcome rest. It was the face of one whose tenacious endurance of constant pain was marked in the firm, unyielding lines about the mouth. It was a face as familiar to Caramon as his own, a face he had looked upon in sleep countless times, a face he had soothed with cooling water...
The hand holding the dagger stabbed down, plunging the blade into the mattress. There was a wild, strangled shriek, and Caramon fell to his knees beside the bed, clutching at the coverlet with fingers curled in agony. His big body shook convulsively, wracked with shuddering sobs.
Raistlin opened his eyes and sat up, blinking in Solinari’s bright light. He drew his hood over his eyes once more, then, sighing in irritation, reached out and carefully removed the dagger from his brother’s nerveless grip.
9
This was truly stupid, my brother,” said Raistlin, turning the dagger over in his slender hands, studying it idly. “I find it hard to believe, even of you.”
Kneeling on the floor by the bedside, Caramon looked up at his twin. His face was haggard, drawn and deathly pale. He opened his mouth.
“‘I don’t understand, Raist,’ ” Raistlin whined, mocking him.
Caramon clamped his lips shut, his face hardened into a dark, bitter mask. His eyes glanced at the dagger his brother still held. “Perhaps it would have been better if I hadn’t drawn aside the hood,” he muttered.
Raistlin smiled, though his brother did not see him.
“You had no choice,” he replied. Then he sighed and shook his head. “My brother, did you honestly think to simply walk into my room and murder me as I slept? You know what a light sleeper I am, have always been.”
“No, not you!” Caramon cried brokenly, lifting his gaze. “I thought—” He could not go on.