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  Twenty men were seated at tables and booths in the room. They were all dressed in black armor of a type that looked familiar to the kender, though he couldn’t recall why. Flagons of ale and beer sloshed over onto the floor as they talked, their voices muffled by the window. Barmaids walked between the patrons, nimbly avoiding groping hands.

  The bartender, a large, unpleasant-looking man, cleaned glasses with a dirty towel behind the bar. Earwig could see that every one of the men carried weapons—knives and swords, some sheathed, others laid across tables, exposed and ready for trouble.

  Standing higher on his toes, Earwig saw one of the barmaids, a girl of about twenty with dark, straight hair and attractive features, bend down to pick up a broken mug. One of the men, dressed in better clothes than the rest, hit her with the flat of his sword. He sent her stumbling into the window frame, causing the other men in the room to howl with laughter. Struggling to stand, the barmaid looked out the window. She and the curious kender made eye contact. The woman fell backward, a look of surprise on her face. Earwig continued watching with interest.

  The barmaid walked warily up to the man who had hit her. “I think you’ve had enough, my lord. You better go back to your home.”

  “I’ll have another!” was the slurred reply. “You can’t throw me out!”

  “Catherine,” called the bartender, glowering. “Go wake the stableboy. Send him for Councillor Shavas.”

  At the sound of the name, the man appeared to reconsider. Grumbling, he pushed a chair back noisily and headed for the door, his steps unsteady. The wooden door banged open. Scratching his stomach with his right hand and the back of his neck with his left, the man looked around the alley and saw Earwig.

  A street light shone full on the kender. The man, staring at Earwig’s neck, lurched forward.

  “Where’d you get that?” he demanded hoarsely, staggering down the short flight of stairs that led from the inn. “Itsh mine!”

  Earwig, startled, put his hand to the cat’s-skull necklace and frowned. He didn’t like this man.

  “You drunken sot!” the kender taunted, getting a firm grip on his hoopak. “I wouldn’t tell you if it were day or night. I wouldn’t tell you if your pants were unlaced, which, by the way, they are. I wouldn’t—”

  The man reached down, caught hold of the kender by the shirt, and pulled a dagger from his own belt.

  “I kill your kind, vermin!”

  “What with? Your stinking breath?”

  Using all his strength, Earwig brought his hoopak up between the man’s legs, striking him in the groin. The man doubled over in pain, clutching himself. The hoopak fell a second time, this time on the man’s head, knocking him unconscious.

  “Oh, dear, now you’ve done it!” said a voice.

  Earwig saw the barmaid standing in the doorway. She sounded worried, but he saw that she was trying hard not to laugh.

  “You better go!” she said softly, hurrying down the stairs. “He’s an important man in this town. There might be trouble.”

  “You mean from those guys in there? I can handle them!” said Earwig stoutly.

  “No, not them. Just go, quickly. And … thank you,” she whispered in a rich voice, soft and pleasant. Leaning over, she kissed the kender swiftly on the cheek. Then, hearing shouts inside, she waved at him and hurried back up the stairs, closing the door behind her.

  Earwig stood in the alley, his hand pressed against his cheek, a look of rapture on his face.

  “Wow! No wonder Caramon likes kissing girls. That’s even more fun than picking a lock!”

  Caramon stood over his brother, staring at him anxiously. “Are you sure you’re all right? What happened, Raist? What was that?”

  “I don’t know,” the mage said weakly. “I’m not certain. Be silent, Caramon. Let me think.”

  For some reason, his mind was pulling him back to their childhood. Raistlin had the vague feeling that something like this had happened to him before. Long ago.

  He recalled brightly colored clothes and music and eating too many sweets … cookies … He seemed to smell fresh-baked cookies …

  The Festival of the Eye!

  Raistlin sat up quickly, causing his head to grow light and his sight dim. He fell over sideways on the bed, closing his eyes, reaching for the staff as he often did when weakness came upon him. When he touched the black wood, a huge sphere of lightning appeared, surrounding his arm, lighting the room with blue flame.

  Caramon cried out in alarm, but the room grew dark again as the last vestiges of magic expended itself, released and channeled into the labyrinths of power within the staff.

  Raistlin sat up. A bitter smile twisted his lips as he recalled his youth—a time when he was a target for contempt.

  The Festival of the Eye. Once a year, the children were allowed to pretend they were adults. He’d worn the robes of a wizard, crudely sewn by the impatient and clumsy hands of his older half-sister, Kitiara. She had outfitted Caramon as a warrior, complete with wooden shield and sword, then took the twins from door to door, begging for the special cookies that were made in honor of that night. It had been the brothers’ last festival together with their sister. Kit had left them soon after, to make her own way in the world.

  That night, when they were returning home to gloat over their treasures in private, Raistlin had suddenly become ill, pain clenching his stomach and sides. His brother and half-sister had been forced to carry him. When he spat to remove a bitter taste in his mouth, a small gout of blue flame had shot out. He could still recall the looks of alarm he’d seen on the faces of his siblings.

  The next morning, Raistlin was fine. The sickness had never occurred again, and neither the brothers nor their sister had ever told anyone else what had happened.

  Raistlin thought that now he was beginning to understand.

  “Hand me my pack,” he ordered his brother.

  Mystified, Caramon obeyed.

  The mage rummaged in it. Pulling out a small book, he flipped through the pages. Caramon, peering over his brother’s shoulder, saw nothing but rows and columns of numbers printed on the yellowing pages. Phases and positions of the moons were also indicated.

  Some of the dates had large circles around some of the numbers, when pictures of the two moons created a single dot on the page. Raistlin continued to leaf through the book, stopping when he reached the middle. Opening the book wide, making the binding crack in complaint, he laid it down on the bed in front of him. After a moment of silent calculation, he closed it and tossed it into his pack.

  “What?” asked Caramon.

  “The Festival of the Eye,” said Raistlin. “Remember? A long time ago, when we were little?”

  Caramon’s eyes crinkled in thought. Suddenly, his mouth sagged. “I’ll be damned,” he murmured, staring at his brother. “What does it mean? It’s just a holiday, that’s all.”

  “To most of you, it is,” Raistlin said, somewhat bitterly. “It’s a time to dress up and break the routine of dull existence. But to us, to wizards, it is much, much more.”

  “Yeah, I remember,” said Caramon. “You’re supposed to offer your services free.”

  “Bah! That’s the least of it!” Raistlin snarled impatiently. “It is, in reality, a time of great magical power. It began untold ages ago when three sorcerers of tremendous and unparalleled skill gave their lives to their crafts, ending their existence in one final, ultimate expenditure that drained their souls. They used the energy to create a force infinitely more potent than any one could ever summon on his own.”

  Caramon shifted uncomfortably, as he often did when his twin discussed his arcane craft.

  “Certain mystical texts stated that the wizards were each dedicated to one of the three alignments,” Raistlin continued. “Good, neutral, and evil—the incantations required all three members from the Great Balance of the World. Some of the books say that the wizards cast the spell to gamble on the future for their deities, hoping that their particular alignm
ent would wrest control of the power when the time came.” Raistlin shrugged. “The sorcerers chose the game, but the gods cast the dice. The wizards died, the energy remained pent up. The texts say that the energy will be released only when the Great Eye is in the heavens.”

  “The Great Eye?”

  “Don’t interrupt me, if you want to know what’s going on. This year’s Festival of the Eye is going to be different from most others because all three moons, including the black moon Nuitari, are moving to rare conjunction. They will form the Great Eye—an orb of red, silver, and black hovering in the night sky, looking down upon Krynn with unfathomable intent.”

  Raistlin paused, gazing at his brother with his own golden hourglass eyes.

  “This has occurred once before in the history of the world—during the Cataclysm.”

  Caramon shook his head. “Look, the Festival of the Eye happens every year. You’ve never been sick before. Except that once.”

  “And on that night of the Festival—the night I was so strangely ill—my books showed the convergence of the two visible moons—Lunitari and Solinari. That is something that occurs more frequently, but still not often. Now, this year, according to my reading, that convergence will happen again. My calculations further confirm that the third—the black moon of the ancient, forgotten goddess Takhisis, Queen of Darkness—will cross over them, forming the Great Eye. What I felt so many years ago was the early gathering of mystic power that is going to be freed during the upcoming festival. Much is explained,” he added, thinking of the white line, understanding now why he could see it.

  “Maybe to you, but not to me,” Caramon grunted, yawning. He glanced at his brother uneasily. “Is this sickness likely to happen again?”

  But Raistlin was lost in thought and didn’t answer.

  Earwig walked back up Southgate Street, past the rows and blocks of houses. “Everyone sure likes this necklace,” he said to himself proudly. “I’m really glad I found it. Gosh, I’m tired, though. Being a great warrior and getting kissed by beautiful women really takes a lot out of a guy.”

  The kender made his way back to Barnstoke Hall, where he was delighted to find the street littered with dice and game pieces. He picked them all up and stuffed them into his pants pockets, wondering where they had come from.

  The large and unfriendly servant was still guarding the door to the inn. The kender kindly let the man rest and went around to the back of the inn, where he crawled up the trellis and climbed into a window.

  “I’ll just stop by and tell Caramon about my adventure,” he said, going up to the twins’ door and knocking on it loudly.

  A bleary-eyed Caramon threw open the door. “You!” He glowered at the kender. “Do you know what time it is?”

  “No,” said Earwig cheerfully. “But I can find out if you want. There’s a clock in the hall. I—” The kender’s mouth flew open. He stared.

  “Raistlin’s staff!”

  “Yeah, so what?”

  “But it was … I mean I tried to … It just disa—!”

  “See you in the morning, Earwig!” growled Caramon as he slammed the door, nearly taking off the kender’s inquisitive nose.

  “How wonderful! It must have come back all by itself! Still,” Earwig added, miffed, “you’d think it would have said something before it let me go to all that trouble looking for it.”

  Yawning, he started to go to his room, but couldn’t remember where it was. He sneaked down into the dark dining hall, undid his pack, rolled out his sleeping mats, and fell asleep under the main table.

  Chapter 10

  “You little monster!”

  The woman’s scream echoed through the inn, awakening Caramon. The next instant, footsteps pounded up the stair and fists banged on the door.

  The fighter turned quickly to observe Raistlin, hoping the mage wouldn’t wake from his slumber. A muscle in his brother’s face twitched, and he stirred restlessly in his sleep.

  Caramon leaped to his feet, fatigue leaving his muscles as he stormed toward the door. Flinging it open, he faced the proprietor he had met briefly last night.

  “Stop that racket!” whispered Caramon loudly. “My brother is sick!”

  “Please, kind sir! I know you are important people—friends of the councillor’s—but you must help me!” The proprietor pointed down the stairs. “Your friend is assaulting my patrons!”

  “My friend?” The warrior looked around the room to see if he’d forgotten somebody. Realization glimmered. “Earwig!” he groaned.

  “Please, sir, please!” The innkeeper pulled on Caramon’s arm, attempting to tug him out the door.

  The fighter came to a dead standstill and looked the proprietor directly in the eye. “Don’t let anything disturb my brother, understand?” He held a thick finger in front of the proprietor’s face for emphasis.

  “Of course not,” the innkeeper said, swallowing hard. “Now would you please come reason with your friend, sir?”

  “Reason? With a kender? That’ll be a first!” the warrior muttered under his breath, closing the door softly behind him.

  Caramon walked into the room, and his eyes widened in disbelief. Earwig stood on a small oaken table in the corner of the dining hall, hoopak in his hand, threatening the staff of the inn. Something white and frilly was on his head.

  One of the cooks, a large portly man, brandished a huge butcher knife. “I’ll chop off your ears!” he threatened, advancing on the kender.

  “Cut out my eyes, too,” taunted the kender. “Then I won’t have to look at your ugly face!” Thwop! The hoopak flew out and slapped the man on the nose.

  “Come on! Who’s next? I’m the mighty warrior, Earwig Lockpicker!” He waved his staff in a wide arc as others attempted to approach. “Admired by men! Beloved by women!”

  Heaving a sigh, Caramon moved forward. Seeing his friend, Earwig warned, “Stay away from me, sir. I’m in the throes of the famous Kender Berzerkergang, which has not been seen on Krynn for hundreds of years!”

  Caramon grabbed the staff as it arced toward his head, the wood making a loud slap on his palm that caused many in the room to wince in sympathetic pain.

  “That’s enough, Earwig.” The warrior wrenched the hoopak from the kender’s hand.

  “Draw your sword, Caramon! Cut them down!” Earwig shrieked, jumping from the table. “They attacked me!”

  “Attacked you?” Caramon stared at the kender. “What in the name of the Abyss is that on your head?”

  Earwig’s face went from righteous anger to bland innocence in less time than it takes to tell it. “It’s my hair, Caramon.”

  The warrior eyed the lacy headpiece wrapped around the kender’s topknot. The headpiece looked familiar. It was—

  “A garter!” the fighter said suddenly. Caramon’s face flushed deep crimson. Reaching out, he snatched the piece of feminine underclothing from the kender’s head. “I’ve heard of kender swiping lots of things!” he hissed into Earwig’s ear, shaking the kender until his teeth rattled. “But how did you manage to steal this?”

  “The problem, sir,” the innkeeper spoke, stepping from the doorway where he had waited until the battle was over, “is that this … person … attempted to … to steal—”

  “Steal!” Earwig’s eyes widened in indignation. “A kender … steal?” He could barely speak for the injustice of the accusation.

  “Sir,” the proprietor continued. “A young lady was sitting down to breakfast when this person … uh …”

  Ignoring the flustered innkeeper, Caramon gazed sternly at Earwig. “What happened?” he asked with a sigh, knowing that he was in for a long and convoluted explanation.

  “Well, last night I went to pick up Raistlin’s staff that he left in the street, only when I reached out to grab it, the staff disappeared. I thought I’d better go look for it—you know, Caramon, how much your brother thinks of that staff. Well, anyway, I went back out—”

  “I locked you in your room!” thundered the inn
keeper. “Councillor Shavas wouldn’t want him walking around town after dark,” he added hastily, for Caramon’s benefit. “The little fellow might get hurt.”

  “Hunh,” grunted Caramon, frowning.

  “Well, anyway,” continued Earwig, deciding magnanimously to overlook being called “little fellow,” “I walked around the town, and I saw a lot of cats, and I found this bar that looked like fun. And it was! A man there tried to kill me, Caramon! With a knife! What do you think of that? I fought him off. Thwack! Over the head with my hoopak. Then the most beautiful girl I ever saw in my life kissed me on the cheek. Just as if I’d been you, Caramon! By then I was getting kind of tired, so I came back here and found all these game pieces lying on the ground, so I picked them up and climbed back up the trellis and in through the window—”

  “What?” the proprietor yelled.

  “Shh!” Caramon insisted, feeling that they must be nearing the important part.

  “I went to your room, and Raistlin’s staff had come back by itself! Which is truly remarkable, except that I did go to a lot of trouble and it might have had more consideration. Then I couldn’t remember my room number, so I went to sleep under the table and when I woke up, that woman was sitting down right on top of me and I saw that this part of her clothing was sliding down her leg. And if this”—the kender pointed at the garter—“had slid down and wrapped around her ankle, she would have tripped and maybe hurt herself so I just took it off her. I guess you heard her scream, huh? After that she fainted. Then all these people jumped on me. For no reason!” Earwig added indignantly.

  His face burning, still holding the garter, Caramon glanced around uncertainly, wondering what to do.

  “I’ll take it, sir,” offered one of the female servants.

  “Yeah! Thanks!” Caramon handed it over in relief. “He didn’t really mean to cause any trouble, Master Innkeeper. He just sort of found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’ll keep an eye on him after this. It won’t happen again.”