Dragonlance 12 - Raistlin Chronicles - Soulforge (19 page)

"My brother comes here?" Caramon asked, astonished.

"All the time. Who do you think taught him his herb lore? Not that dundering idiot Theobald. He wouldn't know a dandelion from a crab apple if it bit him on the ass. You remember the dose, or do you want me to write it down?"

"I… I remember," said Caramon. He held out a coin.

Meggin waved it away. "I don't charge my friends. I was sorry to hear about your parents. Come visit me yourself some time, Caramon Majere. I'd enjoy talking to you. I'll wager you're smarter than you think you are."

"Yes, ma'am," said Caramon politely, having no idea what she meant and no intention of ever taking her up on her offer.

He made an awkward bow and, holding the vial of willow bark elixir as tenderly as a mother holds her newborn child, he slogged through the mud to the staircase leading back up into the trees. His thoughts were extremely confused. Raistlin visiting that old crone. Learning things from her. Maybe he'd touched that skull! Caramon grimaced. It was all extremely baffling.

He was so flustered that he completely forgot he was supposed to stop at the inn for the brandy. He received a severe scolding from Kit when he reached home, and had to go back out in the rain after it.

Raistlin was very ill for several days. The fever would sub-side somewhat after a dose of the willow bark, but it would always go back up again, and each time it seemed to go higher. Kitiara made light of his twin's illness whenever Caramon asked, but he could tell she was worried. Sometimes in the night, when she thought he was asleep, he'd hear Kit give a sharp sigh, see her drum her fingers on the arm of their mother's rocking chair, which Kit had dragged into the small room the twins shared.

Kitiara was not a gentle nurse. She had no patience with weakness. She had determined that Raistlin would live. She was doing everything in her power to force him to get better, and she was irritated and even a little angry when he did not respond. At that point, she decided to take the fight personally. The expression on her face was so grim and hard and determined that Caramon wondered if even Death might not be a little daunted to face her.

Death must have been, because that grim presence backed down.

On the morning of the fourth day of his twin's illness, Caramon woke after a troubled night. He found Kit slumped over the bed, her head resting on her arms, her eyes closed in slumber. Raistlin slept as well. Not the heavy dream-tortured sleep of his sickness, but a healing sleep, a restful sleep.

Caramon reached out his hand to feel his brother's pulse and, in doing so, brushed against Kitiara's shoulder.

She bolted to her feet, caught hold of the collar of his shirt with one hand, twisted the cloth tight around his neck. In her other hand, a knife flashed in the morning sunlight.

"Kit! It's me!" Caramon croaked, half-strangled.

Kit stared at him without recognition. Then her mouth parted in a crooked grin. She let loose of him, smoothed the wrinkles from his shirt. The knife disappeared rapidly, so rapidly that Caramon could not see where it had gone.

"You startled me," she said.

"No kidding!" Caramon replied feelingly. His neck stung from where the fabric had cut into his flesh. He rubbed his neck, gazed warily at his sister.

She was shorter than he was, lighter in build, but he would have been a dead man if he hadn't spoken up when he did. He could still feel her hand tightening the fabric around his throat, cutting off his breathing.

An awkward silence fell between them. Caramon had seen something disquieting in his sister, something chilling. Not the attack itself. What he'd seen that bothered him was the fierce, eager joy in her eyes when she made the attack.

"I'm sorry, kid," she said at length. "I didn't mean to scare you." She gave him a playful little slap on his cheek. "But don't ever sneak up on me in my sleep like that. All right?"

"Sure, Kit," Caramon said, still uneasy but willing to admit that the incident had been his fault. "I'm sorry I woke you. I just wanted to see how Raistlin was doing."

"He's past the crisis," Kitiara said with a weary, triumphant smile. "He's going to be fine." She gazed down on him proudly, as she might have gazed down on a vanquished foe. "The fever broke last night and it's stayed down. We should leave him now and let him sleep."

She pushed the reluctant Caramon out the door. "Come along. Listen to big sister. By way of repaying me for that fright you gave me, you can fix my breakfast."

"Fright!" Caramon snorted. "You weren't frightened."

"A soldier's always frightened," Kit corrected him. Sitting down at the table, she hungrily devoured an apple, still green, one of this season's first fruits. "It's what you do with the fright that counts."

"Huh?" Caramon looked up from his bread slicing.

"Fear can turn you inside out," Kit said, tearing the apple with strong white teeth. "Or you can make fear work for you. Use it like another weapon. Fear's a funny thing. It can make you weak-kneed, make you pee your pants, make you whimper like a baby. Or fear can make you run faster, hit harder."

"Yeah? Really?" Caramon put a slice of bread on the toasting fork, held it over the kitchen fire.

"I was in a fight once," Kit related, leaning back in her chair and propping her booted feet on another nearby chair. "A bunch of goblins jumped us. One of my comrades—a guy we called Bart Blue-nose 'cause his nose had a kind of strange bluish tint to it—anyway, he was fighting a goblin and his sword snapped, right in two. The goblin howled with delight, figuring he had his kill. Bart was furious. He had to have a weapon; the goblin was attacking him from six directions at once, and Bart was dancing around like a fiend from the Abyss trying to keep clear. Bart takes it into his head that he needs a club, and he grabs the first thing he can lay his hand on, which was a tree. Not a branch, a whole god-damned tree. He dragged that tree right out of the ground—you could hear the roots pop and snap— and he bashed the goblin over the head, killed it on the spot."

"C'mon!" Caramon protested. "I don't believe it. He pulled a tree out of the ground?"

"It was a young tree," Kit said with a shrug. "But he couldn't do it again. He tried it on another, about the same size, after the fight was over, and he couldn't even make the tree's branches wiggle.

That's what fear can do for you."

"I see," said Caramon, deeply thoughtful.

"You're burning the toast," Kit pointed out.

"Oh, yeah! Sorry. I'll eat that piece." Caramon snatched the blackened toast from the fork, put another in its place. A question had been nagging at him for the last day or so. He tried to think of some subtle way of asking, but he couldn't. Raistlin was good at subtleties; Caramon just blundered on ahead. He decided he may as well ask it and have done with it, especially since Kitiara appeared to be in a good mood.

"Why'd you come back?" he asked, not looking at her. Carefully he rotated the toast on the fork to brown the other side. "Was it because of Mother? You were at her burial, weren't you?"

He heard Kit's boots hit the floor and glanced up nervously, thinking he'd offended her. She stood with her back turned, staring out the small window. The rain had stopped finally. The vallenwood leaves, just starting to turn color, were tipped with gold in the morning sun.

"I heard about Gilon's death," Kitiara said. "From some woodsmen I met in a tavern up north. I also heard about Rosamun's… sickness." Her mouth twisted, she glanced sidelong at Caramon. "To be honest, I came back because of you, you and Raistlin. But I'll get to that in a moment. I arrived here the night Rosamun died. I… um… was staying with friends.

And, yes, I went to the burial. Like it or not, she was my mother. I guess her death was pretty awful for you and Raist, huh?"

Caramon nodded silently. He didn't like to think about it. Morosely he munched on the burnt toast.

"Do you want some eggs? I can fry 'em," he said.

"Yes, I'm starved. Put in some of Otik's potatoes, too, if you've got any left." Kit remained standing by the window. "It's not that Rosamun meant anything to me. She didn't." Her voice hardened. "But it would have been bad luck if I hadn't gone."

"What do you mean, 'bad luck'?"

"Oh, I know it's all superstitious nonsense," Kit said with a rueful grin. "But she was my mother and she's dead. I should show respect. Otherwise, well"—Kit looked uncomfortable—"I might be punished. Something bad might happen to me."

"That sounds like the Widow Judith," Caramon said, cracking eggshells, making a clumsy and ineffectual attempt at extricating the egg from the shell. His scrambled eggs were noted for their crunchy texture. "She talked about some god called Belzor punishing us. Is that what you mean?"

"Belzor! What a crock. There are gods, Caramon. Powerful gods. Gods who will punish you if you do something they don't like. But they'll reward you, too, if you serve them."

"Are you serious?" Caramon asked, staring at his sister. "No offense, but I've never heard you talk like that before."

Kitiara turned from the window. Walking over, her strides long and purposeful, she planted her hands on the table and looked into Caramon's face.

"Come with me!" she said, not answering his question. "There's a city up north called Sanction. Big things are happening there, Caramon. Important things. I plan to be part of them, and you can, too. I came back on purpose to get you."

Caramon was tempted. Traveling with Kitiara, seeing the vast world outside of Solace. No more backbreaking farm work, no more hoeing and plowing, no more forking hay until his arms ached.

He'd use his arm for sword work, fighting goblins and ogres. Spending his nights with his comrades around a fire, or snug in a tavern with a girl on his knee.

"What about Raistlin?" he asked.

Kit shook her head. "I had hoped to find him stronger. Can he work magic yet?"

"I… I don't think so," said Caramon.

"Odds are he won't ever be able to use it, then. Why, the mages I've heard of are practicing their skills at the age of twelve! Still, I'm sure I could get a job for him. He's well schooled, isn't he?

There's a temple I know about. They're looking for scribes. Easy work and fat living. What do you say? We could leave as soon as Raistlin is well enough to travel."

Caramon allowed himself one more glimpse of walking around this town called Sanction, armor clanking, sword rattling on his hip, the women admiring him. He put the vision away with a sigh.

"I can't, Kit. Raist would never leave that school of his. Not until he's ready to take some sort of test that they give in a big tower somewhere."

"Well, then, let him stay," Kitiara said, irritated. "You come alone."

She eyed Caramon, giving him almost the same look he'd imagined from the women in Sanction.

But not quite. Kit was sizing him up as a warrior. Self-conscious, he stood straighter. He was taller than the boys his age, taller than most men in Solace. The heavy farm labor had built up his muscles.

"How old are you?" Kit asked.

"Sixteen."

"You'd pass for eighteen, sure. I could teach you what you'd need to know on our way north.

Raistlin will be fine here on his own. He's got the house. Your father left it to you two, didn't he?

Well, then! There's nothing stopping you."

Caramon might be gullible, he might be thickheaded—as his brother often told him he was—and slow of thought. But once he had made up his mind about something, he was as immovable as Prayer's Eye Peak.

"I can't leave Raistlin, Kit."

Kitiara frowned, angry, not accustomed to having her will thwarted. Folding her arms across her chest, she glared at Caramon. Her booted foot tapped irritably on the floor. Caramon, uncomfortable beneath her piercing gaze, ducked his head and whipped the eggs right out of the bowl.

"You could talk to Raistlin," Caramon said, his voice muffled by his shirt collar, into which he was speaking. "Maybe I spoke out of turn. Maybe he'll want to go."

"I'll do that," Kitiara said, her tone sharp. She was pacing the length of the small room.

Caramon said nothing more. He dumped what remained of the eggs into a skillet and placed it over the fire. He heard Kit's booted footfalls sound hollowly on the wood, winced at a particularly loud and angry stomp. When the eggs were cooked, the two sat down to breakfast in silence.

Caramon risked a glance at his sister, saw her regarding him with an affable air, a charming smile.

"These eggs are really good," said Kit, spitting out small bits of shell. "Did I ever tell you about the time the bandit tried to stab me in my sleep? What you did reminded me of the story. We'd had a hard fight that day, and I was dead tired. Well, this bandit…"

Caramon listened to this story and to many other exciting adventures during the day. He listened and enjoyed what he heard—Kit was an excellent storyteller. Every so often, Caramon would go to the bedroom to check on Raistlin and find him slumbering peacefully. When Caramon returned, he would hear yet another tale of valor, daring, battles fought, victory, and wealth won. He listened and laughed and gasped in all the right places. Caramon knew very well what his sister was trying to do.

There could be only one answer. If Raistlin went, Caramon would go. If Raistlin stayed, so did Caramon.

That evening, Raistlin woke. He was weak, so weak that he couldn't lift his head from the pillow without help. But he was lucid and very much aware of his surroundings. He didn't appear all that surprised to see Kitiara.

"I had dreams about you," he said.

"Most men do," Kit returned with a grin and a wink. She sat down on the edge of the bed, and while Caramon fed his brother chicken broth, Kitiara made Raistlin the same proposition she'd made Caramon.

She wasn't quite as glib, talking to those keen blue, unblinking eyes that looked right through her and out the other side.

"Who is it you work for?" Raistlin asked when Kit had finished.

Kitiara shrugged. "People," she said.

"And what temple is this where you would have me work? Dedicated to what god?"