She checked a sigh, ducking her head to avoid some lowhanging branches. She did not look behind her. Pursuit would not be very swift in coming, she hoped. There were the messengers—Caramon would have to deal with them first and he dared not send any of his guards out without him. Not after the witch!
Suddenly, Crysania laughed. If anyone ever looked like a witch, I do! She had not bothered to change her torn robes. When Caramon had found her in the woods, he had fastened them together with clasps from his cloak. The robes had ceased, long ago, to be snowy white; from travel and wear and being washed in streams, they had dulled to a dove-colored gray. Now, torn and mud-spattered, they fluttered around her like bedraggled feathers. Her cloak whipped out behind her as she rode. Her black hair was a tangled mass. She could scarcely see through it.
She rode out of the woods. Ahead of her stretched the grasslands, and she reined in the horse for a moment to study the land lying ahead of her. The animal, used to plodding along with the ranks of the slow-moving army, was excited by this unaccustomed exercise. It shook its head and danced sideways a few steps, looking longingly at the smooth expanse of grass, begging for a run. Crysania patted its neck.
“Come on, boy,” she urged, giving it free rein.
Nostrils flaring, the horse laid back its ears and sprang forward, galloping across the open grasslands, thrilling in its newfound freedom. Clinging to the creature’s neck, Crysania gave herself up to the pleasure of her newfound freedom. The warm afternoon sun was a pleasant contrast to the sharp, biting wind in her face. The rhythm of the animal’s gallop, the excitement of the ride, and the faint edge of fear she always felt on horseback numbed her mind, easing the ache in her heart.
As she rode, her plans crystallized in her mind, becoming clearer and sharper. Ahead of her, the land darkened with the shadows of a pine forest; above her, to her right, the snowcapped peaks of the Garnet Mountains glistened in the bright sunshine. Giving the reins a sharp jerk to remind the animal that she was in control, Crysania slowed the horse’s mad gallop and guided it toward the distant woods.
Crysania had been gone from camp almost an hour before Caramon managed to get matters organized enough to set off in pursuit. As Crysania had foreseen, he had to explain the emergency to the messengers and make certain they were not offended before he coul d leave.
This involved some time, because the Plainsman spoke very little Common and no dwarven, and, while the dwarf spoke Common fairly well (one reason he had been chosen as messenger), he couldn’t understand Caramon’s strange accent and was constantly forcing the big man to repeat himself.
Caramon had begun trying to explain who Crysania was and what her relationship was to him, but that proved impossible for either the dwarf or the Plainsman to comprehend. Finally, Caramon gave up and told them, bluntly, what they were bound to hear in camp anyway—that she was his woman and she had run off.
The Plainsman nodded in understanding. The women of his tribe, being notably wild, occasionally took it into their heads to do the same thing. He suggested that when Caramon caught her, he have all her hair cut off—the sign of a disobedient wife. The dwarf was somewhat astonished—a dwarven woman would as soon think of running away from home and husband as she would of shaving her chin whiskers. But, he reminded himself dourly, he was among humans and what could you expect?
Both bid Caramon a quick and successful journey and settled down to enjoy the camp’s stock of ale. Heaving a sigh of relief, Caramon hurried out of his tent to find that Garic had saddled a horse and was holding it ready for him.
“We picked up her trail, General,” the young man said, pointing. “She rode north, following a small animal trail into the woods. She’s on a fast horse—” Garic shook his head a moment in admiration. “She stole one of the best, I’ll say that for her, sir. But, I wouldn’t think she’d get far.”
Caramon mounted. “Thank you, Garic,” he began, then stopped as he saw another horse being led up. “What’s this?” he growled. “I said I was going alone—”
“I am coming, too, my brother,” spoke a voice from the shadows.
Caramon looked around. The archmage came out of his tent, dressed in his black traveling cloak and boots. Caramon scowled, but Garic was already respectfully helping Raistlin to mount the thin, nervous black horse the archmage favored. Caramon dared not say anything in front of the men—and his brother knew it. He saw the amused glint in Raistlin’s eyes as he raised his head, the sunlight hitting their mirrored surface.
“Let’s be off, then,” Caramon muttered, trying to conceal his anger. “Garic, you’re in command while I’m gone. I don’t expect it will be long. Make certain that our guests are fed and get those farmers back out there on the field. I want to see them spearing those straw dummies when I return, not each other!”
“Yes, sir,” Garic said gravely, giving Caramon the Knight’s salute.
A vivid memory of Sturm Brightblade came to Caramon’s mind, and with it days of his youth; days when he and his brother had traveled with their friends—Tanis, Flint the dwarven metalsmith, Sturm... . Shaking his head, he tried to banish the memories as he guided his horse out of camp.
But they returned to him more forcefully when he reached the trail into the woods and caught a glimpse of his brother riding next to him, the mage keeping his horse just a little behind the warrior’s, as usual. Though he did not particularly like riding, Raistlin rode well, as he did all things well if he set his mind to it. He did not speak nor even look at his brother, keeping his hood cast over his head, lost in his own thoughts. This was not unusual—the twins had sometimes traveled for days with little verbal communication.
But there was a bond between them, nonetheless, a bond of blood and bone and soul. Caramon felt himself slipping into the old, easy comradeship. His anger began to melt away—it had been partly at himself, anyhow.
Half-turning, he spoke over his shoulder.
“I—I’m sorry... about... back there, Raist,” he said gruffly as they rode deeper into the forest, following Crysania’s clearly marked trail. “What you said was true—she did tell me that... that she—”
Caramon floundered, blushing. He twisted around in the saddle. “That she—Damn it, Raist! Why did you have to be so rough with her?”
Raistlin lifted his hooded head, his face now visible to his brother. “I had to be rough,” he said in his soft voice. “I had to make her see the chasm yawning at her feet, a chasm that, if we fell into it, would destroy us all!”
Caramon stared at his twin in wonder. “You’re not human!”
To his astonishment, Raistlin sighed. The mage’s harsh, glittering eyes softened a moment. “I am more human than you realize, my brother,” he said in a wistful tone that went straight to Caramon’s heart.
“Then love her, man!” Caramon said, dropping back to ride beside his brother. “Forget this nonsense about chasms and pits or whatever! You may be a powerful wizard and she may be a holy cleric, but, underneath those robes, you’re both flesh and blood! Take her in your arms and... and...”
Caramon was so carried away that he checked his horse, stopping in the middle of the trail, his face lit with his passion and enthusiasm. Raistlin brought his horse to a stop, too. Leaning forward, he laid his hand on his brother’s arm, his burning fingers searing Caramon’s skin. His expression was hard, his eyes once again brittle and cold as glass.
“Listen to me, Caramon, and try to understand,” Raistlin said in an expressionless tone that made his twin shudder. “I am incapable of love. Haven’t you realized that, yet? Oh, yes, you are right—beneath these robes I am flesh and blood, more’s the pity. Like any other man, I am capable of lust. That’s all it is... lust.”