Love And War (32 page)

“As usual, my brother,” said the mage wryly. Ignoring the grunts and yells, the cracking
of furniture and bone, Raistlin leaned on his staff and began climbing the stairs.

The girl was fighting her attacker with her fists - she apparently had no other weapon -
and it was easy to see she must soon lose. The man's attention was fixed on dragging his
struggling victim up the stairs, and he never noticed the red-robed mage moving swiftly
behind him. There was a flash of silver, a quick thrust of the mage's hand, and the
ruffian, letting loose of the girl, clutched his ribs. Blood welled out from between his
fingers. For an instant he stared at Raistlin in astonishment, then tumbled past him,
falling headlong down the stairs, the mage's dagger protruding from his side.

“Raist! Help!” Caramon shouted from below. Though he had laid three opponents low, he was
locked in a vicious battle with a fourth, his movements decidedly hampered by a gully
dwarf, who had crawled up his back and was beating him over the head with a pan.

But Raistlin was not able to go to his brother's rescue. The girl, weak and dizzy from her
struggles, missed her step upon the stairs and swayed unsteadily.

Letting go of his staff - which remained perfectly upright, standing next to him as though
he were holding it - Raistlin caught the girl before she fell.

“Thank you,” she murmured, keeping her head down. Her scarf had come undone in her
struggles and she tried to wrap it around her face again. But Raist lin, with a sardonic
smile and a deft movement of his skilled hands, snatched the scarf from the girl's head.

“You dropped this,” he said coolly, holding the scarf out to her, all the while his keen
eyes looking to see why this young woman hid her face from the sun. He gasped.

The girl kept her head down, even after losing the scarf, but, hearing the man's swift
intake of breath, she knew it was too late. He had seen her. She checked the movement,
therefore, looking up at the mage with a small sigh. What she saw in his face shocked her
almost as much as what he saw in hers.

“Who . . . what kind of human are you?” she cried, shrinking away from him.

“What kind are you?” the mage demanded, holding onto the girl with his slender hands that
were, nevertheless, unbelievably strong.

“I - I am . . . ordinary,” the girl faltered, staring at Raistlin with wide eyes.

“Ordinary!” Raistlin gripped her more tightly as she made a half-hearted attempt to break
free. His eyes gazed in disbelief at the fine-boned, delicate face; the mass of hair that
was the brilliance and color of silver starlight; the eyes that were dark and soft and
velvet-black as the night sky. “Ordinary! In my hands I hold the most beautiful woman I
have seen in all my twenty-one years. What is more, I hold in my hands A WOMAN WHO DOES
NOT AGE!” He laughed mirthlessly. “And she calls herself 'ordinary!' ”

“What about you?” Trembling, the girl's hand reached up to touch Raistlin's golden-skinned
face. “And what do you mean - I do not age?”

The mage saw fear in the girl's eyes as she asked this question, and his own eyes
narrowed, studying her intently. “My golden skin is my sacrifice for my magic, as is my
shattered body. As for you not aging, I mean you do not age in my sight. You see, my eyes
are different from the eyes of other men. . . .” He paused, staring at the girl, who began
to shiver beneath the unwavering scrutiny. “My eyes see time as it passes, they see the
death of all living things. In my vision, human flesh wastes and withers, spring trees
lose their leaves, rocks crumble to dust. Only the young among the long-lived elves would
appear normal to me, and even then I would see them as flowers about to lose their bloom.
But you - ”

“Raist!” Caramon boomed from below. There was a crash. Endeavoring to shake off the gully
dwarf - who was holding his hands firmly over the big man's eyes, blinding him - Caramon
tripped, and fell headlong on a table, smashing it to splinters.

The mage did not move, nor did the girl. “You do not age at all! You are not elven,”
Raistlin said.

“No,” the girl murmured. Her eyes still fixed on the mage, she tried unsuccessfully to
free herself from his grasp. “You - you're hurting me. . . .”

“What are you?” he demanded.

She shrugged, squirming and pushing at his hands. “Human, like yourself,” she protested,
looking up into the strange eyes. “And I thank you for saving me, but - ”

Suddenly she froze, her efforts to free herself ceased. Her gaze was locked onto
Raistlin's, the mage's gaze was fixed upon her. “No!” she moaned helplessly. “No!” Her
moan became a shriek, echoing above the howling of the storm winds outside the inn.

Raistlin reeled backward, slamming into the wall as though she had driven a sword into his
body. Yet she had not touched him, she had done nothing but look at him. With a wild cry,
the girl scrambled to her feet and ran up the stairs, leaving the mage slumped against the
wall, staring with stunned, unseeing eyes at where she had crouched before him on the
staircase.

“Well, I took care of the scum. Small thanks to you,” Caramon muttered, coming up beside
his brother. Wiping blood from a cut on the mouth, the big warrior looked over the railing
in satisfaction. Four men lay on the floor, not counting the one his brother had stabbed,
whose inert body was huddled at the foot of the staircase in a heap. The gully dwarf was
sticking out of a barrel, upside down, its feet waving pathetically in the air, its
ear-splittling screams likely to cause serious breakage of the glassware.

“What about damages?” Slegart demanded, coming over to survey the ruin.

“Collect it from them,” Caramon growled, gesturing to the groaning members of the hunting
party. “Here's your dagger, Raist,” the warrior said, holding out a small silver knife. “I
cleaned it as best I could. Guess you didn't want to waste your magic on those wretches,
huh? Anyway - hey, Raist - you all right?”

“I'm . . . not injured. . . .” Raistlin said softly, reaching out his hand to catch hold
of his brother.

“Then what's the matter?” Caramon asked, puzzled. “You look like you've seen a spirit.
Say, where's the girl?” He glanced around. “Didn't she even stay to thank us?”

“I - I sent her to her room,” Raistlin said, blinking in confusion and looking at Caramon
as though wondering who he was. After a moment, he seemed more himself. Taking the dagger
from his brother's hand, the mage replaced it on the cunningly made thong he had attached
around his wrist. “And we should be going to our rooms, my brother,” he said firmly,
seeing Caramon's gaze go longingly to the pitcher of ale still on their table. “Lend me
your arm,” the mage added, taking hold of his staff. “My exertions have exhausted me.”

“Oh, uh, sure, Raist,” Caramon said, his thirst forgotten in his concern for his brother.

“Number thirteen,” grunted Slegart, helping the ruffians drag their wounded comrade off
into a comer.

“It figures,” Caramon muttered, assisting his brother up the stairs. “Hey, you got a good
look at that girl? Was she pretty?”

“Why ask me, my brother?” Raistlin replied softly. Pulling his hood down low over his face
again, he evaded his brother's question. “You know what these eyes of mine see!”

“Yeah, sorry, Raist.” Caramon flushed. “I keep forgetting. Damn! That one bastard broke a
chair over my back end when I was bending over. I know I got splinters. . . .”

“Yes, my brother,” Raistlin murmured, not listening. His gaze went to the door at the end
of the hall, a door marked with the number 16.

Behind that door, Amberyl paced restlessly, clasping and unclasping her hands and
occasionally making that low, moaning cry.

“How could this happen?” she asked feverishly, walking back and forth, back and forth the
small chamber. The room was chill and dark. In her preoccupation, Amberyl had allowed the
fire to go out. “Why did this happen? How could it happen? Why didn't any of the wise
foresee this?” Over and over again she repeated these words, her feet tracing the circular
path of her thoughts out upon the grime-encrusted wooden floor.

“I must talk to him,” she said to herself suddenly. “He is magi, after all. He may know
some way . . . some way to ... help. . . .Yes! I'll talk to him.”

Grabbing up her scarf, she wound it around her face again and cautiously opened the door.
The hallway was empty and she started to creep out when she realized she had no idea which
room was his.

“Perhaps he isn't even staying the night,” she said, sagging against the door frame in
despair. “What would I say to him anyway?” Turning, she started back into her room when
she stopped. “No, I MUST find him!” she said and closed the door firmly so that she might
not be tempted back inside. “If he isn't up here yet, I'll go after him.”

Moving down the hall, Amberyl crept near each door, listening. Behind some she heard
groans and muttered oaths and hurriedly shied away from these, realizing that her
attackers were inside, recovering from their fray with the mage and his brother. At
another door there was the shrill giggle of a female and the deeper laughter of a man. Amberyl continued to number 13.

“But, Raist! What am I supposed to say to the girl? 'Come down to our room, my brother
wants you'?”

Recognizing the voice, Amberyl pressed closer against the door, listening carefully.

“If that is all you can think of saying, then say that.”

The whispering, sneering voice, barely heard above the howling of the storm wind, sent
tiny prickles of pain through Amberyl's body. Shivering, she drew closer still. “I don't
care what you do, just bring her to me!”

Amberyl heard a shuffling sound and a deprecating cough. “Uh, Raist, I don't know how
grateful you think she's gonna be, but from what I've seen of her - ”

“Caramon,” said the whispering voice, “I am weary and sick, and I have no more patience to
cope with your stupidity. I told you to bring the girl to me. Now do so. . . .” The voice
trailed off in coughing.

There came the sound of heavy footsteps nearing the door. Fearful of being caught
listening, yet unable to leave, Amberyl wondered frantically what to do. She had just
decided to run back to her room and hide when the door opened.

“Name of the gods!” Caramon said in astonishment, reaching out and catching hold of
Amberyl as she shrank backward. “Here she is, Raist! Standing outside in the hall.
Eavesdropping!”

“Is she?” The golden-eyed, golden-skinned mage looked up curiously from where he sat
huddled by the fire as his brother half-dragged, half-led Amberyl into the room. “What
were you doing out there?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.

For a moment, Amberyl could say nothing. She just stood staring at the mage, twisting the
bottom of her scarf in her hands.

“Hold on, Raist,” Caramon said gently. “Don't yell at her. The poor thing's freezing. Her
hands are like a ghoul's. Here, my lady,” the big man said awkwardly, leading her closer
to the fire and drawing up a chair for her. “Sit down. You'll catch your death.” He put
his hand on her scarf. “This is wet from the snow. Let me take - ”

“No!” Amberyl cried in a choked voice, her hands going to the scarf. “No,” she repeated
more softly, flushing to see Raistlin look at her with a grim smile. “I - I'm fine. I ...
never . . . catch cold. Please. . . .”

“Leave us, Caramon,” Raistlin said coldly.

“What?” The big man looked startled.

“I said leave us. Go back to your pitcher of ale and the barmaid. She appeared not
insensible to your attractions.” “Uh, sure, Raist. If that's what you want ....” Caramon hesitated, looking at his brother with such a dumb-founded expression on his face that
Amberyl started to laugh, only it came out in a sob. Hiding her face in her scarf, she
tried to check her tears.

“Leave us!” Raistlin ordered.

“Sure!” Amberyl heard Caramon backing out the door. “Just . . . just remember, you're not
strong, Raistlin . . . .”

The door closed gently.

“I - I'm sorry,” Amberyl faltered, raising her face from the scarf, using the hem to dry
her eyes. “I didn't mean to cry. I lost control. It - it won't happen again.”

Raistlin did not answer her. Comfortably settled in a battered old chair, the mage sat
calmly staring at Amberyl, his frail hands clutching a mug of tea that had long ago gone
cold. Behind him, near at hand, his staff leaned against the wall. “Remove the scarf,” he
said finally, after a long silence.

Swallowing her tears, Amberyl slowly reached up and unwound the scarf from her face. The
expression in the golden eyes did not change; it was cold and smooth as glass. Amberyl
discovered, looking into those eyes, that she could see herself reflected there. She
wouldn't be able to enter again, not as she had on the stairs. The mage had put up
barriers around his soul.

Too late! she thought in despair. Too late. . . .

“What have you done to me?” Raistlin asked, still not moving. “What spell have you cast
upon me? Name it, that I may know how to break it.”

Amberyl looked down, unable to stand the gaze of those strange eyes a moment longer. “No -
no spell,” she murmured, twisting the scarf round and round. “I - I am not. . . not
magi... as surely you can tell - ”

“Damn you!” Raistlin slid out of the chair with the speed of a striking snake. Hurling the
mug to the floor, he grabbed hold of Amberyl's wrists and dragged her to her feet. “You're
lying! You have done something to me! You invaded my being! You LIVE inside me! All I can
think of is you. All I see in my mind is your face. I cannot concentrate! My magic eludes
me! What have you done, woman?”

“You're hurting me!” Amberyl cried softly, twisting her arms in his grasp. His touch
burned. She could feel an unnatural warmth radiate from his body, as though he were being consumed alive by some
inner fire.

“I will hurt you much worse than this,” Raistlin hissed, drawing her nearer, “if you do
not tell me what I ask!”