Brother's Majere Page 19

  “A wizard of extraordinary power, perhaps greater than Par-Salian.”

  Caramon shivered, recalling the powerful master of the Tower of High Sorcery.

  The black cat watched and listened intently to the brothers talk, never taking its bright, reflecting eyes from them.

  Raistlin raised his arms and began to speak the strange, spidery language of magic. The room glowed—a dull, purple aura that covered everything, including the corridor through which they had walked.

  “There,” the mage said in satisfaction. “We can return here whenever we wish.” He turned to go.

  “But—”

  “There is nothing more we can do. I cannot save these cats. I must go back to my room and think. And you, if you will remember, have an engagement tonight.” Raistlin headed down the corridor.

  Caramon stood, looking back, a sadness in his heart. Removing the yellow sequined ball from his pocket, he laid it down gently on the blood-wet floor.

  “I’m sorry,” he started to say to the black cat, but it was gone.

  Chapter 16

  “I wonder where Earwig is. Maybe he got lost,” Caramon said, straightening the room. His mother had always made him clean up after himself, and the fighter did not let old habits die.

  “Kender never get lost, perhaps because they never truly know where they are.”

  Raistlin sat at the desk in front of the window in the companions’ room, writing something on a roll of parchment. Caramon, when he was through with his own cleaning, did his brother’s. The mage was also unwilling to let old habits die.

  “What are you doing?”

  The red cowl was pulled back from Raistlin’s face, allowing the afternoon sun to fall on his golden features. He rested his quill, scowling at Caramon with a sideways glance before returning to his work.

  “If you must know, I am asking Lady Shavas for access to her library tonight.”

  “That’s great!” Caramon said heartily, relieved.

  “Why that tone, my brother?”

  “It’s just … I thought …”

  “You thought I was going to sneak into her house like a thief?”

  “Well …” the fighter began uncomfortably.

  “You’re a dolt, Caramon.”

  The big man kept silent. Usually his twin was the more intuitive of the two, but this time Caramon knew precisely what his brother was feeling. The pangs of jealously were sharp and left festering wounds.

  Raistlin finished his writing and sat, waiting for the ink to dry. A knock on the door startled them both.

  “Were you expecting anyone, Caramon?”

  “No,” said the warrior, sliding his sword from its scabbard. “You?”

  “No. Enter!” Raistlin called out.

  The messenger, instead of opening the door, slid something under the crack between frame and floor. Footsteps retreated rapidly away from the room.

  The mage retrieved the message, breaking the wax seal with a loud snapping sound. Turning to the light at the window, he held the parchment in both hands, reading.

  “What is it?” the warrior asked, still holding the sword.

  “It is a letter from Lady Shavas. She is waiting for you downstairs,” Raistlin said in even tones.

  Caramon saw that his brother’s golden hands trembled. “Anything else?”

  Raistlin crumpled the message into a ball. “It says that I may use the councillor’s library tonight.”

  “I am so very glad you could accept my offer for this evening, Caramon,” said the Councillor of Mereklar.

  The two sat in Shavas’s private carriage, guided by her personal driver.

  “My p-pleasure,” Caramon stammered, gazing at his companion across the gulf that stretched between their seats.

  Shavas wore a gown similar to the one she had worn when the companions first met her, only this one left her white shoulders bare. She had wrapped around her a silk shawl—the black one, Caramon noted nervously—with a lace pattern woven into the fabric, fringe hanging from the ends. From her neck hung the opal pendant.

  “Are you cold, my lady? You may have my cloak,” the warrior offered, thinking his gesture gentlemanly.

  Before Shavas could answer, he unclasped the black cloak from around his neck and tossed it clumsily over her body. Straightening the folds, Caramon accidentally touched the woman’s neck, her skin as soft as delicate clouds. He felt her warmth, a flush of life beneath his fingers.

  “Sorry,” he apologized, blushing and returning to his seat.

  Shavas smiled, arranging his cloak around her. The red inner lining of the fighter’s cloak made the woman seem magical—as dark and glittering as the three moons of Krynn.

  I am being a real dolt, just like Raistlin said, Caramon thought with chagrin. Why can’t I relax when I’m with her? I’ve never felt this way around any woman before. It’s because she’s a lady—a true lady. The most beautiful I’ve ever seen. Just like the royal ladies in the stories about the Knights of Solamnia. Sturm, my old friend, how would you act? How does a knight treat a lady?

  Caramon didn’t realize that he was staring at her until he saw Shavas lower her head, her cheeks mantling with a faint flush.

  “I—I’m sorry. I know I’m acting like an idiot, but I can’t help it. You are so lovely!” Caramon stammered.

  “Thank you, my brave warrior,” Shavas said. Reaching out to him almost shyly, she allowed her fingers to brush against his hand. He trembled at her touch. “I am so glad you could come with me tonight. You help me forget about … about—”

  The woman shivered, her face became pale.

  “Don’t talk about it,” said Caramon firmly.

  “No, you’re right. I won’t.” Shavas lifted her head bravely. “And I have nothing to fear, have I? Not with you by my side!”

  “I would die before I let any harm come to you, Lady Shavas.”

  The councillor smiled again at the sincerity in the big man’s voice. Her hand grasped his, tightening around his strong fingers. “Thank you,” she said, “but I much prefer you alive!”

  Desire flashed through Caramon. His blood burned. All thoughts of royal ladies vanished from his mind. She was a woman, and now he knew just what to do. He tried to pull Shavas near, but she suddenly snatched her hand away. Leaning back in the carriage, she glanced languidly out the window. Caramon, wrestling with his passion, thought it best to do the same.

  The lights of the city shone as they always did—bright stars above the streets. The few people shuffling along the sidewalks of Mereklar tipped their hats and bowed as they passed. Caramon watched Shavas smile and nod to the citizens in turn. But he thought her smile seemed strained.

  The coach turned left on another street and entered a large, open park surrounded by a fence of thick trees and hedges. At one end of the park stood a small building.

  “Is this where we’re going?” Caramon asked, his heart pounding. The place seemed deserted.

  “If you don’t like it, we can go elsewhere,” the councillor said coolly.

  “Oh, no. This is … fine,” the warrior replied.

  The carriage pulled alongside the building, and Caramon jumped down, holding out his hands. He lifted Shavas by her slim waist, pressing her warm body next to his as he lowered her to the ground. The black shawl fluttered like wings.

  “Thank you, Caramon,” she said, lingering near him for an instant.

  “Good evening, Councillor Shavas. I’m so very glad you have arrived on time,” someone said in a high voice.

  Startled, Caramon whipped around. Behind him stood a thin man wearing a black coat. He was visibly nervous, casting his gaze up and down the street. “Are you sure you wish to have dinner here tonight, my lady? The servants refused to come after dark, and—”

  “Thank you, Robere, this will be fine,” Shavas interrupted smoothly.

  “Shall I show you the way, madame?” Robere asked, hands clasped together.

  The councillor shook her head slightly and
smiled. “No. I think we can find our own way.”

  “Very good, madame,” Robere replied. Bowing again, he turned on his heel and left the travelers.

  “Don’t wait,” Shavas told the carriage driver.

  “When shall I return for you, my lady?”

  Shavas glanced at Caramon from the corner of her eye. “Tomorrow morning,” she said softly.

  Caramon thought the beating of his heart might suffocate him.

  The two walked around the little building that he assumed, from the smell, was a kitchen. They came to what appeared to be an entrance into a park. The fighter’s eyes adjusted to the darkness. He saw a cloth spread on the ground, and he realized that they were going to dine outdoors. He glanced around uneasily. What a great place for an ambush. The memory of the corpse he had seen last night almost made him turn and run. Shavas slipped her hand through his arm, walking close beside him.

  “This is one of my favorite places. It allows me to be a little more … relaxed … than I can be at home,” she whispered into Caramon’s ear, bringing her soft cheek next to his.

  The area was prepared when they arrived. Robere added several black pillows, placing them into comfortable positions around the white spread. Two silver candlesticks stood in the middle, scented tapers burning with a warm light. Plates and trays held fresh fruits and warm meats. TWO crystal glasses, filled with sparkling red wine, waited to be sipped.

  Shavas led Caramon to the cloth. Letting go of his hand, she sank to the pillows opposite him, stretching her lithe body comfortably.

  “Please, sit down,” she said, gracefully indicating a mound of cushions.

  Clumsily, the fighter sat, crossing his legs under him, his tall boots creaking.

  “You look splendid, Caramon.” Shavas’s compliment made the fighter flush.

  “Uh, thank you,” he said, unsure if he should return the compliment or merely accept gracefully. “This is a very nice spot you’ve picked out. It’s very … uh—”

  “Private.” The woman finished for him. “As Councillor of Mereklar, I am constantly called upon to stand in the public eye. But even I have needs, and one of them is occasional privacy.”

  “It sounds like you lead a very busy life.” Caramon gulped at his wine.

  “Yes, very busy and very … lonely.”

  Shavas lowered her eyes. Her lashes cast long shadows, and a tear slid down her cheek. Caramon longed to take her in his arms, but he couldn’t figure out how to get around the food on the plates.

  Staring at her glass, Shavas held it up to candle’s flame. The councillor suddenly blinked her eyes and frowned, shaking her head, as if awakening from a dream.

  “A toast,” she said clearly. “To you and your brother—”

  “And the success of our mission,” Caramon added loudly.

  This seemed to take the woman by surprise. “Of course,” she said. “To … success.”

  They sipped at the same time. Caramon would have downed his glass in one motion had he not seen his companion put her glass down, still mostly full.

  “Are you hungry?” the councillor asked, reaching across the cloth to take the warrior’s plate.

  Without waiting for an answer, she began dishing up food, selecting meat and fruit and fish. She took some herself, though nowhere near the same amount.

  Caramon searched for forks and spoons, but found nothing and grew nervous, wondering if he had missed something again. Shavas saw his worry.

  “Eat with your hands, Caramon. Nobody’s watching! We’re completely, absolutely alone.”

  The woman took a berry between her fingers and brought it slowly up to her mouth, licking a drop of juice. The fighter looked on, felt heat rise to his face. He’d been hungry before they sat down, but now he wondered if he could eat a mouthful. He’d never in his life wanted a woman as much as he wanted this one.

  Neither said anything during the meal. Both seemed only to be waiting with anticipation for it to end.

  When they finished, Shavas wiped her fingers on a silk napkin. Robere appeared, seemingly from out of nowhere, and began clearing away plates.

  “When you are finished, you may leave,” said Shavas, her gaze fixed on Caramon.

  “Thank you, my lady,” said Robere in obvious relief.

  “Now, Caramon,” said Shavas, “What shall we talk about?”

  “Talk?” the fighter returned, startled and disappointed. He’d had other ideas in mind. “I don’t know. What do you want to talk about?”

  Shavas poured herself another glass of wine. “Tell me about yourself. Tell me about one of your adventures.”

  The fighter thought of the stories he usually told in taverns, of blood and guts and cold steel. “I doubt any tales I know would interest you, my lady,” he mumbled, almost tipping over his wine. Grabbing it, he downed the glass at a swallow.

  “You might be surprised,” said Shavas. “But if you don’t want to talk of battle, tell me about your brother. Tell me about Raistlin.”

  Ah ha! Caramon shifted restlessly, jealously. Now he’d found her true interest! “Raist? What do you want to know about him?”

  “Tell me what he’s like. He’s very young to have such power, isn’t he?”

  “He is the first of his age to pass the Test at the Towers of High Sorcery,” said Caramon reluctantly, not wanting to think or talk about that terrible time.

  “Truly?” Shavas prompted. “It must have been a frightening experience.”

  “It was. Those who don’t pass the test die.”

  Shavas, seeing him growing uncomfortable, smiled to herself and changed the subject.

  “Have you and your brother journeyed together long?”

  “All of our lives,” Caramon said softly, staring at the empty glass in his hands. “We’re never apart.”

  “Except when each of you goes in search of what he truly desires.”

  Shavas rose gracefully to her feet. Bringing her arms up over her head, she undid the braids coiled around her head, releasing cascading waves of soft, brown hair.

  Caramon watched her, his desire a physical pain. “ ‘I long to hear the epiphany of your woman’s crown, and play upon its shining strands,’ ” he whispered.

  The councillor bent down, kneeling in front of her guest. Bringing her cheek close to Caramon’s mouth, she nestled near him. “That’s beautiful. Did you make it up?”

  “No,” the fighter replied, clasping her in his arms, drawing her down to lie beside him in the cool grass. “It’s something Raist used to say. I think he read it in a book. He’s always … reading … books.”

  Shavas brought her hands up to caress his face, brushing the backs of her long, perfect fingernails against his rough skin.

  “Say it to me again, Caramon,” she whispered.

  But he knew she didn’t really want to hear the quote.

  Which was good, because he couldn’t, for the life of him, remember it.

  Raistlin sat on the couch in Shavas’s library, flipping absently through the book Caramon had glanced over two evenings ago. Noting the blank pages, he tossed it aside in contempt.

  The councillor had left the door to her estate open, allowing the mage access. Her note did not say when she would return. Raistlin, knowing Caramon’s prowess, decided that the lady probably wouldn’t be back until morning. The mage stifled a small flame of jealous desire that threatened to engulf him in a raging fire.

  “The magic,” he said to himself. “Never forget what is important.”

  Raistlin rose to his feet, preparing to cast a spell. His chant began as a low murmuring, a song that filled the room with indescribable music. His left hand opened wide, then closed, fingers opening again in patterns of power, drawing strength from Krynn and the unseen planes. He raised the black staff high into the air, arm straight, bringing it slowly back against his robed body, curving it in an arc to his side.

  In answer to his command, three books began to glow.

  Knowing the spell wouldn’t l
ast long, Raistlin marked in his memory their location and sat back down on the couch. He drew a deep, shivering breath. Staring at his treasure, his body, too, ached with desire.

  Gathering and calming his thoughts, he moved slowly to the bookshelf, reached up a trembling hand, and pulled down the first text. It was entitled, Mereklar. Below that was inscribed, The Lord of the Cats.

  “What’s this?” Raistlin studied the brown cover, frowning. It appeared that the second half of the title had been added on in haste, as if the binder had been given a last-minute instruction. He placed it on the table near the fire, sitting down in the wooden chair, opening the book to the first page. Among the illuminations of red, blue, and gold were scrawling letters, written by an unknown, unnamed scholar of ages past.

  The origins of Mereklar are unknown, and will remain unknown until such time as it needs to be discovered. The purpose of the city is clear and final, and those within know its reasons. The cats must live here, for their purpose will be known when the time is come.

  “What nonsense!” the mage snarled. “I expected magical spells, not a tour guide!”

  He turned to another page and found a picture of a black-skinned man dressed in black clothes standing in front of a blasted cityscape. Lightning cracked against an orange sky, and three moons formed a Great Eye in the unnatural air. The street looked familiar to Raistlin, but he couldn’t immediately place it. Underneath the painting was the caption: The Lord of Cats in his realm of despair, waiting, stealthy and black, for the gate to open.

  “Interesting. Very interesting,” said Raistlin, his anger gone. He began to carefully turn the ancient parchments, one by one, until he reached the end of the book. “This certainly puts matters in a different light than the prophecies would have it.”

  The Lord of Cats brings his demons … will lead the cats against the world … destroys the city that stands before the first gods … slays those who bring harm to his dominion … agent of evil.

  Reaching the end, Raistlin brought his index fingers to his lips. It was of interest, certainly, but it wasn’t in the least magical. What had caused it to respond to his spell? “I have never come across anything like this before. And what am I to believe? The legends of the city or the facts in this book?”