His face darkened at the sound of Tika’s name.
“What would you know of love?” Caramon asked abruptly, releasing his grasp and looking away.
“I love Tika, sure. I’ve loved lots of women. Tika’s loved her share of men, too, I’ll wager.” He drew in an angry breath. That wasn’t true, and he knew it. But it eased his own guilt, guilt he’d been wrestling with for months. “Tika’s human!” he continued surlily. “She’s flesh and blood—not some pillar of ice!”
“What do I know of love?” Crysania repeated, her calm slipping, her gray eyes darkening in anger. “I’ll tell you what I know of love. I—”
“Don’t say it!” Caramon cried in a low voice, completely losing control of himself and grabbing her in his arms. “Don’t say you love Raistlin! He doesn’t deserve your love! He’s using you, just like he used me! And he’ll throw you away when he’s finished!”
“Let go of me!” Crysania demanded, her cheeks stained pink, her eyes a deep gray.
“Can’t you see!” Caramon cried, almost shaking her in his frustration. “Are you blind?”
“Pardon me,” said a soft voice, “if I am interrupting. But there is urgent news.”
At the sound of that soft voice, Crysania’s face went white, then scarlet. Caramon, too, started at the sound, his hands loosening their hold. Crysania drew back from him and, in her haste, stumbled over the chest and fell to her knees. Her face well hidden by her long, black, flowing hair, she remained kneeling beside the chest, pretending to rearrange her things with hands that shook.
Scowling, his own face flushed an ugly red, Caramon turned to face his twin.
Raistlin coolly regarded his brother with his mirrorlike eyes. There was no expression on his face, as there had been no expression in his voice when he spoke upon first entering. But Caramon had seen, for a split second, the eyes crack. The glimpse of the dark and burning jealousy inside appalled him, hitting him an almost physical blow. But the look was gone instantly, leaving Caramon to doubt if he had truly seen it. Only the tight, knotted feeling in the pit of his stomach and the sudden bitter taste in his mouth made him believe it had been there.
“What news?” he growled, clearing his throat.
“Messengers have arrived from the south,” Raistlin said.
“Yes?” Caramon prompted, as his brother paused.
Casting off his hood, Raistlin stepped forward, his gaze holding his brother’s gaze, binding them together, making the resemblance between them strong. For an instant, the mage’s mask dropped.
“The dwarves of Thorbardin are preparing for war!” Raistlin hissed, his slender hand clenching into a fist. He spoke with such intense passion that Caramon blinked at him in astonishment and Crysania raised her head to regard him with concern.
Confused and uncomfortable, Caramon broke free of his brother’s feverish stare and turned away, pretending to shuffle some maps on the map table. The warrior shrugged. “I don’t know what else you expected,” he said coolly. “It was your idea, after all. Talking of hidden wealth. We’ve made no secret of the fact that’s where we’re headed. In fact, it’s practically become our recruiting slogan! ‘Join up with Fistandantilus and raid the mountain!’”
Caramon tossed this off thoughtlessly, but its effect was startling. Raistlin went livid. He seemed to try to speak, but no intelligible sounds came from his lips, only a blood-stained froth. His sunken eyes flared, as the moon on an ice-bound lake. His fist still clenched, he took a step toward his brother.
Crysania sprang to her feet. Caramon—truly alarmed—took a step backward, his hand closing over the hilt of his sword. But, slowly and with a visible effort, Raistlin regained control. With a vicious snarl, he turned and walked from the tent, his intense anger still so apparent, however, that the guards shivered as he passed them.
Caramon remained standing, lost in confusion and fear, unable to comprehend why his brother had reacted as he did. Crysania, too, stared after Raistlin in perplexity until the sound of shouting voices outside the tent roused both of them from their thoughts. Shaking his head, Caramon walked over to the entrance. Once there, he half-turned but did not look at Crysania as he spoke.
“If we are truly preparing for war,” he said coldly, “I can’t take time to worry about you. As I have stated before, you won’t be safe in a tent by yourself. So you’ll continue to sleep here. I’ll leave you alone, you may be certain of that. You have my word of honor.”
With this, he stepped outside the tent and began conferring with his guards.
Flushing in shame, yet so angry she could not speak, Crysania remained in the tent for a moment to regain her composure. Then she, too, walked from the tent. One glance at the guards’ faces and she realized at once that, despite the fact that she and Caramon had kept their voices low, part of their conversation had been overheard.
Ignoring the curious, amused glances, she looked around quickly and saw the flutter of black robes disappearing into the forest. Returning to the tent, she caught up her cloak and, tossing it hurriedly around her shoulders, headed off in the same direction.
Caramon saw Crysania enter the woods near the edge of camp. Though he had not seen Raistlin, he had a pretty good idea of why Crysania was headed in that direction. He started to call to her. Though he did not know of any real danger lurking in the scraggly forest of pine trees that stood at the base of the Garnet Mountains, in these unsettled times, it was best not to take chances.
As her name was on his lips, however, he saw two of his men exchange knowing looks. Caramon had a sudden vivid picture of himself calling after the cleric like some love-sick youth, and his mouth snapped shut. Besides, here was Garic coming up, followed by a weary-looking dwarf and a tall, dark-skinned young man decked out in the furs and feathers of a barbarian.
The messengers, Caramon realized. He would have to meet with them. But—His gaze went once more to the forest. Crysania had vanished. A premonition of danger seized Caramon. It was so strong that he almost crashed through the trees after her, then and there. Every warrior’s instinct called to him. He could put no name to his fear, but it was there, it was real.
Yet, he could not rush off, leaving these emissaries, while he went chasing after a girl. His men would never respect him again. He could send a guard, but that would make him look almost as foolish. There was no help for it. Let Paladine look after her, if that was what she wanted. Gritting his teeth, Caramon turned to greet the messengers and lead them into his tent.
Once there, once he had made them comfortable and had exchanged formal and meaningless pleasantries, once food had been brought and drinks poured, he excused himself and slipped out the back...
Footsteps in the sand, leading me on...
Looking up, I see the scaffold, the hooded figure with its head on the block, the hooded figure of the executioner, the sharp blade of the axe glinting in the burning sun.
The axe falls, the victim’s severed head rolls on the wooden platform, the hood comes off...
“My head!” Raistlin whispered feverishly, twisting his thin hands together in anguish.
The executioner, laughing, removes his hood, revealing...
“My face!” Raistlin murmured, his fear spreading through his body like a malign growth, making him sweat and chill by turns. Clutching at his head, he tried to banish the evil visions that haunted his dreams continually, night after night, and lingered to disturb his waking hours as well, turning all he ate or drank to ashes in his mouth.
But they would not depart. “Master of Past and Present!” Raistlin laughed hollowly-bitter, mocking laughter. “I am Master of nothing! All this power, and I am trapped! Trapped! Following in his footsteps, knowing that every second that passes has passed before! I see people I’ve never seen, yet I know them! I hear the echo of my own words before I speak them! This face!” His hands pressed against his cheeks. “This face! His facet Not mine! Not mine! Who am I? I am my own executioner!”