“I would have ‘magicked up’ brains for you long ago, if I could have,” Raistlin snapped peevishly.
“What would you like me to do—make her appear out thin air or look for her in my crystal ball? No, I won’t waste my strength. Besides it’s not necessary. Have you a map, or did you manage to think that far ahead?”
“I have a map,” Caramon said grimly, drawing it out of his belt and handing it to his brother.
“You might as well water the horses and let them rest,” Raistlin said, sliding off his. Caramon dismounted as well and led the horses to the stream while Raistlin studied the map.
By the time Caramon had tethered the horses to a bush and returned to his brother, the sun was setting. Raistlin held the map nearly up to his nose trying to read it in the dusk. Caramon heard him cough and saw him hunch down into his traveling cloak.
“You shouldn’t be out in the night air,” Caramon said gruffly.
Coughing again, Raistlin gave him a bitter glance. “I’ll be all right.”
Shrugging, Caramon peered over his brother’s shoulder al the map. Raistlin pointed a slender finger at a small spot, half way up the mountainside.
“There,” he said.
“Why? What would she go to some out-of-the-way place like that for?” Caramon asked, frowning, puzzled. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Because you have still not seen her purpose!” Raistlin returned. Thoughtfully, he rolled up the map, his eyes staring into the fading light. A dark line appeared between his brows.
“Well?” Caramon prompted skeptically. “What is this great purpose you keep mentioning? What’s the matter?”
“She has placed herself in grave danger,” Raistlin said suddenly, his cool voice tinged with anger.
Caramon stared at him in alarm.
“What? How do you know? Do you see—”
“Of course I can’t see, you great idiot!” Raistlin snarled over his shoulder as he walked rapidly to his horse. “I think! I use my brain! She is going to this village to establish the old religion She is going there to tell them of the true gods!”
“Name of the Abyss!” Caramon swore, his eyes wide “You’re right Raist,” he said after a moment’s thought. “I’ve heard her talk about trying that, now I think of it. I never believed she was serious, though.”
Then, seeing his brother untying his horse and preparing to mount, he hurried forward and laid his hand on his brother’s bridle. “Just a minute, Raist! There’s nothing we can do now. We’ll have to wait until morning.” He gestured into the mountains. “You know as well as I do that we don’t dare ride those wretched trails after dark. We’d be taking a chance on the horses stumbling into a hole and breaking a leg. To say nothing of what lives in these god-forsaken woods.”
“I have my staff for light,” Raistlin said, motioning to the Staff of Magius, snug in its leather carrier on the side of saddle. He started to pull himself up, but a fit of coughing forced him to pause, clinging to the saddle, gasping for breath.
Caramon waited until the spasm eased. “Look, Raist,” he said in milder tones, “I’m just as worried about her as you are but I think you’re overreacting. Let’s be sensible. It’s not as if she were riding into a den of goblins! That magical light’ll draw to us whatever’s lurking out there in the night like moths to a candleflame. The horses are winded. You’re in no shape to go on, much less fight if we have to. We’ll make camp here for the night. You get some rest, and we’ll start fresh in the morning.”
Raistlin paused, his hands on his saddle, staring at his brother. It seemed as if he might argue, then a coughing fit seized him. His hands slipped to his side, he laid his forehead against the horse’s flank as if too exhausted to move.
“You are right, my brother,” he said, when he could speak.
Startled at this unusual display of weakness, Caramon almost went to help his twin, but checked himself in time—a show of concern would only bring a bitter rebuke. Acting as if nothing were at all amiss, he began untying his brothers bedroll, chatting along, not really thinking about what he was saying.
“I’ll spread this out, and you rest. We can probably risk a small fire, and you can heat up that potion of yours to help your cough. I’ve got some meat here and a few vegetables Garic threw together for me.” Caramon prattled on, not even realizing what he was saying. “I’ll fix up a stew. It’ll be just like the old days.
“By the gods!” He paused a moment, grinning. “Even though we never knew where our next steel piece was coming from, we still ate well in those days! Do you remember? There was a spice you had. You’d toss it in the pot. What was it?” He gazed off into the distance, as though he could part the mists of time with his eyes. “Do you remember the one I’m talking about? You use it in your spellcasting. But it made damn good stews, too! The name... it was like ours—marjere, marjorie? Hah!” Caramon laughed—“I’ll never forget the time that old master of yours caught us cooking with his spell components! I thought he’d turn himself inside out!”
Sighing, Caramon went back to work, tugging at the knots. “You know, Raist,” he said softly, after a moment, “I’ve eaten wondrous food in wondrous places since then—palaces and elf woods and all. But nothing could quite match that. I’d like to try it again, to see if it was like I remember it. It’d be like old times—”
There was a soft rustle of cloth. Caramon stopped, aware that his brother had turned his black hooded head and was regarding him intently. Swallowing, Caramon kept his eyes fixedly on the knots he was trying to untie. He hadn’t meant to make himself vulnerable and now he waited grimly for Raistlin’s rebuke, the sarcastic gibe.
There was another soft rustle of cloth, and then Caramon fell something soft pressed into his hand—a tiny bag.
“Marjoram,” Raistlin said in a soft whisper. “The name of the spice is marjoram...”
5
It wasn’t until Crysania rode into the outskirts of the village itself that she realized something was wrong.
Caramon, of course, would have noticed it when he first looked down at the village from the top of the hill. He would have detected the absence of smoke from the cooking fires. He would have noted the unnatural silence—no sounds of mothers calling for children or the plodding thuds of cattle coming in from the fields or neighbors exchanging cheerful greetings after a long day’s work. He would have seen that no smoke rose from the smithy’s forge, wondered uneasily at the absence of candlelight glowing from the windows. Glancing up, he would have seen with alarm the large number of carrion birds in the sky, circling...
All this Caramon or Tanis Half-Elven or Raistlin or any of them would have noted and, if forced to go on, he would have approached the village with hand on sword or a defensive magic spell on the lips.
But it was only after Crysania cantered into the village and, staring around, wondered where everyone was, that she experienced her first glimmerings of uneasiness. She became aware of the birds, then, as their harsh cries and calls of irritation at her presence intruded on her thoughts. Slowly, they flapped away, in the gathering darkness, or perched sullenly on trees, melting into the shadows.
Dismounting in front of a building whose swinging sign proclaimed it an inn, Crysania tied the horse to a post and approached the front door. If it was an inn, it was a small one, but well-built and neat with ruffled curtains in the windows and a general air of cheery welcome about it that seemed, somehow, sinister in the eerie silence. No light came from the window. Darkness was rapidly swallowing the little town. Crysania, pushing open the door, could barely see inside.
“Hello?” she called hesitantly. At the sound of her voice, the birds outside squawked raucously, making her shiver. “Is anyone here? I’d like a room—”