Brother's Majere Read online

  He replaced the text on the shelf, going to the next of the three he had discovered. Lifting his hand to the top shelf, he noticed another book on the ledge.

  The title was Tanis Half-Elven.

  “Fascinating, but, unfortunately, not important,” Raistlin remarked.

  Taking the text he originally wanted back to the table, he lifted the black, fraying cover and turned to the opening page.

  The Accounts of the Mage Ali Azra of the Shining Planes—The City of the White Stone.

  “Ah!” Raistlin breathed in excitement. The tales of the supposedly mad wizard Ali Azra of the mythical Shining Planes were among his favorites, combining magical text with entertaining stories. He had read them against the commands of his masters, who maintained that the information was too advanced and dangerous for a young mage’s comprehension. But that had never stopped Raistlin, who found Azra’s techniques fascinating, though his style was rather irritating.

  Long have I studied the stones of Mereklar, longer even than when I studied the Pillars of Isclangaard.

  Raistlin smiled at the mention of Isclangaard. The chronicle was the first he had ever read.

  And like the pillars, many fantastic things have I learned, which I now lay down upon these pages for my children to know. Among my children I list— Raistlin skipped ahead. Ali Azra never failed to list every one of his pupils. The mage flipped pages until he found the first chapter heading.

  The Walls: Symbols of Purity. The walls of the fantastic and wonderful city of Mereklar surround the land with three great barriers against evil. The white marble is a warning to those who would bring harm upon the inhabitants. Inscribed on the Walls of the Fantastic and Wonderful City of Mereklar are the legends and tales of the world, Krynn, and other places that even I, the Great and Powerful Mage Ali Azra, must confess I have only glimpsed briefly, hardly long enough to give full and accurate accountings, as I am sure you, gentle reader, would desire.

  Raistlin scowled. “Gentle reader” was a term he detested.

  When you follow in my illustrious footsteps, as I am sure you shall, wanting to become more familiar with my greatness, desiring to taste of the power which I now freely command, you will find that the Walls of the Fantastic and Wonderful the City of Mereklar cannot be scratched by any force, and no spell, of good intent or evil, can affect it. “Why is this” you ask, and ask you should, for in the knowing there is power. Let it be known that I, the Great and Powerful Mage Ali Azra, know the origins of the City of Mereklar, and they are that the Incomparable Gods of Good, among them numbered Paladine, Majere, and Mishakal, with whom I have had the pleasure of conversing, sent the city to the land, commanding that it not be harmed by element or man.

  “All right, all right!” Raistlin muttered impatiently. “If the gods of good did create Mereklar, what was their purpose?” The magician read further into the book, hoping to discover an answer to his question. However, he learned nothing of interest, merely accounts of Azra’s journeys and wanderings, occasionally mentioning the city, though without giving any useful information. The wizard hadn’t even bothered to include a useful spell.

  Slamming shut the account of the mad mage, Raistlin placed it back on the shelf. Going to the third and final text, he pulled out a volume covered in red velvet, darkened by age. The title was simple, Arcanus, a name found on many magical treatises. Walking back to the table, Raistlin opened to the first page, and his eyes widened as he beheld a spiral of runes, burned into the page, the sigla surrounded by the yellow discolorations of heat.

  “Ah!” he whispered. “At last!”

  He clutched the staff near him, golden face shining in the red heat of the fireplace. He began to read when suddenly he saw before his eyes the figures of Shavas and Caramon, bodies twined together in passionate embrace.

  “I have no time for such things!” he snarled, closing his eyes, banishing the vision. Discipline. He prepared himself for the first glyph. Taking a deep breath, he aligned his mind with his goals, his will with his desires, and started down the winding path of power.

  A bolt of white sent his senses reeling in pain, and his nerves caught fire. Yellow shafts rained down on him, contorting his body into impossible forms. Orange beams seared his brain, a flood of cold that broke his essence. Red coils destroyed his thoughts, spiriting them away to the infinite. Blue spears cut into his flesh.

  “No! Never!” Raistlin cried.

  Grabbing the black staff in both hands, standing alone in a universe of pain, he drew his will about him, gathering himself into a shining star of desire that kept his shattered form from falling to despair. The multi-colored demons wailed around him, formless creatures from nether-planes trying to ensnare his spirit and drag him into the Abyss. Though he felt his essence falling deeper and deeper, he forced his eyes to gaze still at the cursed runes. Raistlin knew that to give in, to cease reading for the slightest instant, would spell destruction for his being.

  Then he knew that he did not fight alone. Someone else had a stake in this battle for Raistlin’s being. He laughed, daring and defying any world to take him, any plane to claim him for its own.

  The creatures ceased their tortures and fled.

  Exhausted, Raistlin fell across the book. Beneath him, he heard the text disappear with the hiss of a snake. The trap was defeated. He had escaped.

  Chapter 17

  Shavas walked the path of crushed white stone that led back to her house, admiring her flowers, whose dew-heavy heads hung over the path. The morning sun glinted off the stained-glass windows. Smiling, she tossed her head, shaking the mass of disheveled hair from her face.

  The estate was very quiet, and even the sound of the waterclock was muffled, as if afraid to disturb her. Shavas went to the library, opening the heavy doors, closing them softly behind her. The room was empty. She frowned, wondering. What had she expected to find? The body of a young magic-user, his soul torn from him, dragged to stand before the Dark Queen? Had he truly escaped, proving his power? Or had he simply not tried? Shavas searched the room for some sign of his presence. There was none. The books on her shelf stood undisturbed. Perhaps he hadn’t read them. Perhaps he hadn’t even come.

  No. Shavas smiled, and lifted the one book that the mage had not thought to replace, the one book that had seemed innocuous. He’d been here. And he had been triumphant. He was, indeed, worthy.

  Shavas carried the book upstairs to her room. Without disrobing, she lay down in her bed. Opening the heavy book, she settled into a comfortable position to read the pages that were no longer blank. On the spine of the text were two words, freshly inlaid with gold: Brothers Majere.

  A painting showed two men sitting around a campfire—one a large, handsome warrior; the other thin and frail, dressed in red robes, holding a black staff with a gold dragons claw clutching a pale blue orb. Shavas began to read.

  Caramon enjoys guarding Raistlin’s sleep. This is the only time that the mage seems to his brother to be at peace, though occasionally this peace, too, is shattered by disturbing dreams. Caramon has always guarded his weaker brother against the dangers of the world, whether cold, sickness, or more obvious threats. He feels personally responsible for Raistlin’s well-being, though his brother does little to show his appreciation.

  The responsibility Caramon feels for his brother stems from their youth. Raistlin’s physical weakness, his high intelligence and naturally sly, cynical nature, made him a target for bullies. Caramon’s timely intervention prevented his frail brother’s injury on several occasions when some of the pranks turned serious. Incapable of understanding the need to abuse the weak and helpless, Caramon became Raistlin’s guardian. Raistlin himself developed a hatred of those who would harm the innocent, the weak. The brothers have championed several such causes in Krynn.

  Shavas sighed and bit her lip. Had she misjudged Raistlin? No, how could she? She had felt his ambition burning through his skin. And she had determined correctly that his lust for magic would overcome his
lust for the pleasures of the flesh.

  The twins are inseparable, always together, yet always apart. Caramon has watched Raistlin grow more moody and introspective even as the warrior himself becomes more outgoing. When Raistlin left to study magic, Caramon saw him change even more. Raistlin discovered that magic could compensate for his physical weakness. Through magic he can control, manipulate, dominate—needs Caramon cannot understand, or rather, has no need to understand.

  The fighter is popular. Strong and handsome, he is admired and respected by his peers, most notably the friends of his youth, a rather motley collection of vagabond wanderers. (See volumes: Tanis Half-Elven, Flint Fireforge, Sturm Brightblade, Kitiara Uth-Matar, Tasslehoff Burrfoot.) Among them, Raistlin is tolerated.

  Raistlin possess many qualities none of his peers can see. The most prominent is his courage, his willingness to fight those who would rule with an iron fist. This attribute is hidden beneath the young magician’s unfriendly demeanor and cynical attitude.

  There have been many times when Raistlin, even as an apprentice mage, successfully unmasked the trickeries and glamours of the clerics of the so-called “new gods,” revealing them to be charlatans of the most parasitic kind, feeding on the fears of the populace.

  Raistlin believed none of them and turned their venomous trickeries upon themselves, showing the crowds of awestruck, fear-ridden people that these clerics were as false as their ideals. More than once, Caramon has been forced to pull his brother out of the way of ruined clerics bent on revenge.

  Caramon knows, deep inside, that he and his brother are slowly, inevitably drifting apart. Caramon sees that each day brings new power, insights, and magics to Raistlin, though the mages body can barely stand the strain. Caramon has watched his brother cast spells that turn the strongest warrior to ashes, only to see Raistlin collapse with convulsions that wracked his body from inside, bringing blood to his lips.

  But each time Raistlin rises from his torment, struggling on arms too weak to lift himself, standing on legs limp with fatigue. And Caramon sees a very faint smile illumine his brother’s face—a smile that speaks of a great spirit unwilling to die, unwilling to let go of mortal flesh until every goal is ultimately achieved.

  It is because of this perseverance that Caramon knows he must admit ultimate defeat at the hands of his brother, though he rails against the thought. The vision at the Towers of High Sorcery— showing that Raistlin, in his jealous rage, was willing to kill even his twin—was the death knoll of Caramon’s fond dreams.

  “Ah,” murmured Shavas. “Now we’re getting somewhere. More detailed information please.”

  The book obliged, adding a new page before the woman’s eyes.

  No one knows for certain how Raistlin managed to pass the test, for the mysteries of the Tower are hidden even to me. Certainly the young mage was nearly defeated in a contest with a dark elf known as Dalamar. It is thought that Raistlin traded his life’s essence for his life. If that is true, then on some plane of existence there is a powerful being who watches over and protects the young mage—not out of kindness, perhaps, but to protect the beings own interests.

  Shavas closed the book for a moment, her fingers keeping her place. If that were true, it might hinder her plans. Or it might help them, depending on the nature of the protector. She wished she’d known this information earlier. Now there was so little time. Shavas returned to her reading.

  At the end of the test, the masters arranged it so that it seemed to Raistlin that his twin, Caramon, was endowed with magic. In a jealous rage, thinking his brother had stolen the only thing in the mage’s unhappy life that gave it any meaning, Raistlin killed Caramon. Actually, it was only a phantom of Caramon, created by the masters. But Par-Salian, Head of the White Robes, had also arranged for Caramon to watch his own murder at the hands of his twin. When the brothers left the Towers, their lives were forever changed. Raistlin has the power he seeks, but all Caramon has is time.

  Shavas tossed the book to the floor. Leaning back among the pillows, she began to laugh.

  That same morning, Lord Brunswick sat in his favorite chair in his estate’s main living room, a spacious area covered with dark wood and filled with the accoutrements of wealth and power. The minister watched his children play with cold eyes, running his fingers along the length and width of a leather bag, shaped like an oddly formed triangle.

  His youngest daughter ran over to him and grabbed the pouch. “What’s that, Daddy?”

  The lord slapped her across the face, pulling the bag away. “Don’t touch that, brat!”

  The girl wailed and ran to her mother. The lord’s wife, comforting the child, stared at her husband, aghast. “Alfred! What’s come over you?”

  The minister refused to answer, but stalked out of the room, slamming the double-doors behind him. He heard the muffled voice of the woman consoling the child. “There, there. Tonight’s the Festival of the Eye. Think of the fun you’ll have!”

  The lord grinned. Yes, tonight the fun would begin.

  The large house was dark. None of the rooms were occupied, the servants gone for the holiday. Brunswick walked through it hurriedly and into the grassy yard, clutching the bag to his chest.

  Tucking the pouch away under his belt, the lord strode through the field surrounding his home, coming upon one of the many streams that ran out the city. He followed the tributary against the flow, walking steadily, with purpose, into Mereklar.

  Lord Brunswick came to a park with a small grove of trees standing in the middle—a monument to his family. He stood, staring at it, then laughed in derision.

  A small mew answered his laugh. At the foot of the tree was a kitten, lost, looking, perhaps, for a mother who would never return. The lord reached down and grabbed the kitten by the neck. Frantic with fright, the kitten clawed and scratched and sank its sharp milk teeth into the lord’s thumb.

  Swearing, the minister hurled the kitten from him. Brunswick concentrated on the pain; the blood dried, and the wound closed and healed.

  Lord Brunswick’s face darkened. He took the pouch from under his belt, tore open the flap, and pulled out a short wand, bent to an odd angle at one end. He pointed the wand at the kitten.

  An enraged snarl, sounding from above his head, caused the lord to glance upward in fear. Too late. A huge black cat dropped from the tree, its weight driving the man to the ground. The wand flew from Brunswick’s hand. The animal bared its long fangs, preparing to tear out the man’s throat.

  The minister, with superhuman strength, threw the animal off his chest. Leaping to his feet, he crouched in a fighting stance.

  The huge feline slowly circled to the left, the lord sidestepping in turn. Man and beast eyed each other warily, their bright, reflecting eyes shining. In a single motion, the minister shot forward, attempting to grab the cat by the neck, but the animal was too quick. It leaped aside and jumped on the man’s back.

  The minister fought desperately, attempting to dislodge the panther by reaching up from behind. The cat worried the lord in the back of the neck, using its hind claws to flay his flesh, tearing bleeding rents that should have killed the man in an instant.

  The minister fell heavily, his hand lighting on an object on the ground. There was a blazing flash of red light. The panther, stunned, toppled off the man. Lord Brunswick, reddish liquid pouring from his wounds, rose up and narrowed his eyes, concentrating his vision on the enemy before him. Another flash of red seared the skin from the panther’s back. The cat made no sound; the pain shook it back to consciousness. It leaped again, straight at its enemy, but the minister had suddenly disappeared.

  The panther began to stalk the grove, casting its gaze about. It walked slowly, head sunk beneath its shoulders in fury. It made no sound until it whipped around, sinking its foreclaws into the arm of the minister as he reached out to aim the wand. The man’s mangled arm went limp, and the wand fell from his nerveless fingers.

  The lord, in desperation, attempted to grab the
animal by the neck with his remaining good arm. The panther freed himself easily. Crouching on its hind legs, gathering strength, it sprang for the man’s throat, white teeth flashing.

  A scream, a ripping sound, and a blood-drenched necklace rolled on the grass—a silver cat’s skull with ruby eyes.

  Chapter 18

  “Have you ever heard of Dizzy Longtongue, the kender who could throw his hoopak with such skill and accuracy that he could make it return to his hand? Well, one day a minotaur made a bet with Dizzy that he couldn’t throw his staff around the girth of a forest, and Dizzy said, ‘I’ll bet you the gold in my pocket against the ring in your nose that I can make my hoopak come back to me from around the forest.’ The minotaur accepted and said that if he didn’t make it, he would have Dizzy for dessert. Dizzy naturally agreed.”

  Earwig paused to hear if any of his fellow prisoners had any comments, such as “Wow, isn’t that interesting?” or “I can hardly wait to hear what happens!” There was, however, only silence.

  Sighing, Earwig pressed on. “Dizzy took a hundred-pace running start before he let go of his hoopak with a mighty zing! Dizzy and the minotaur waited for hours, listening for the sound of the returning hoopak. After a day, the minotaur said, ‘Well, my lad, it looks like I’m having you for afters,’ and Dizzy said—”

  A stabbing pain behind his eyes caused Earwig to lose his place in the story of Dizzy Longtongue. It was certainly an interesting sensation—his temples throbbed so that he thought his head would crack. But, after consideration, the kender decided it was one sensation he could do without.

  Earwig tried to raise his hands to massage his eyes, but he couldn’t move them that far, due to the chains on his wrists. That, too, was another interesting development.

  “I’m a prisoner in some black, damp cell, probably hundreds of feet below the ground, guarded by thousands of warriors who are armed to the teeth. A situation I’ve wanted to try.” He enjoyed himself immensely for about an hour, but after that …