Love And War (34 page)

“Take off your scarf,” he whispered.

Slowly, Amberyl unwound the scarf from her face, letting it fall about her shoulders. She
shook out her snow- wet hair, feeling drops of water spatter on her hands.

“How beautiful you - ” He broke off. “What will happen to me?” Raistlin asked abruptly.
“Will I die?”

“I - I don't know,” Amberyl answered reluctantly, her gaze going to the fire. She couldn't
bear to look at him. The mage's eyes burned through her, touching something deep inside,
filling her with sweet pain. “I have . . . never heard of this . . . happening to - to a .
. . human before.”

“So you are not human,” Raistlin remarked.

“No, I am not,” Amberyl replied, still unable to face him.

“You are not elven, nor any of the other races that I am familiar with who live upon Krynn
- and I tell you - What is your name?”

“Amberyl.”

“Amberyl,” he said it lingeringly, as though tasting it. She shivered again.

“I tell you, Amberyl,” he repeated, “I am familiar with all the races on Krynn.”

“Wise you may be, mage,” Amberyl murmured, “but the mysteries of this world that have yet
to be discovered are as numberless as the snowflakes.”

“You will not reveal your secret to me?”

Amberyl shook her glistening hair. “It is not my secret alone.”

Raistlin was silent. Amberyl did not speak either. Both sat listening to the hissing and
popping of the wood and the whistling of the wind among the trees.

“So ... I am to die, then,” Raistlin said, breaking the silence at last. He didn't sound
angry, just weary and resigned.

“No, no, no!” Amberyl cried, her eyes going to the mage. Reaching out impulsively, she
took his thin, wasted hand in her own, cradling her cheek against it. “No,” she repeated.
“Because then I would die.”

Raistlin snatched his hand from hers. Propping himself up weakly on his elbow, his golden
eyes glittering, he whispered hoarsely, “There IS a cure? You can break this . . . this
enchantment?”

“Yes,” Amberyl answered without a voice, feeling the warm blood suffuse her face.

“How?” Raistlin demanded, his hand clenching. “First,” said Amberyl, swallowing, “I - I
must tell you something about . . . about the VALIN.“ ”The what?” Raistlin asked quickly. Amberyl could
see his eyes flicker. Even facing death, his mind was working, catching hold eagerly of this
new information, storing it away.

“The VALIN. That is what it is called in our language. It means . . .” She paused,
frowning, trying to think. I suppose the closest meaning in your language is LIFE-MATE."

The startled expression on the mage's face was so funny that Amberyl laughed nervously.
“Wait, let me explain,” she said, feeling her own face growing more and more flushed. “For
reasons of our own, in ages so far back that they are past reckoning, my people fled this
land and retreated to one where we could live undisturbed. Our race is, as you were able
to detect, long-lived. But we are not immortal. As all others, in order for our race to
survive, we must produce children. But there were few of us and fewer still as time went
by. The land we chose to live in is a harsh one. We tend to be loners, living by ourselves
with little interaction even among our own kind. What you know as families are unknown
among us. We saw our race begin to dwindle, and the elders knew that soon it must die out
completely. They were able to establish the VALIN to ensure that our young people . . .
that they . . .”

Raistlin's face had not changed expression, his eyes continued to stare at her. But
Amberyl could not continue speaking beneath that strange, unblinking gaze.

“You chose to leave your land?” Raistlin asked. “Or were you sent away?”

“I was sent to this land ... by the elders. There are others here as well. . . .”

“Why? What for?”

Amberyl shook her head. Picking up a stick, she poked at the fire, giving herself an
excuse to avoid his eyes.

“But surely your elders knew that something like this must happen if you go out into other
lands,” Raistlin said bitterly. “Or have they been away THAT long?”

“You have no conception of how long we have been away,” Amberyl said softly, staring at
the fire that was flickering out despite her best efforts to keep it going. “And, no, it
should NOT have happened. Not with one who is not of our race.” Her gaze went back to
Raistlin. “And now it is my turn to ask questions. What is there about YOU that is
different from other humans? For there is something, something besides your golden skin
and eyes that see death in the living. Looking at you, I perceive the shadow of another. You are young, yet there is a timelessness about you. Who are YOU, Raistlin, that
this has happened between us?”

To her amazement, Raistlin blanched, his eyes widening in fear, then narrowing in
suspicion. “It seems we both have our secrets.” He shrugged. “And now, Amberyl, it appears
that we will never know what caused this to happen. All that should really concern us is
what must be done to rid ourselves of this . . . this VALIN?”

Shutting her eyes, Amberyl licked her lips. Her mouth was dry, the cave was suddenly
unbearably cold. Shivering, she tried more than once to speak.

“What?” Raistlin's voice grated.

“I ... must bear . . . your child,” Amberyl said weakly, her throat constricting.

For long moments there was silence. Amberyl did not dare open her eyes, she did not dare
look at the mage. Ashamed and afraid, she buried her face in her arms. But an odd sound
made her look up.

Raistlin was lying back on his blankets, laughing. It was almost inaudible laughter, more
a wheeze and a choking, but laughter nonetheless - taunting, cutting laughter. And Amberyl
saw, with pity in her heart, that its sharp edge was directed against himself.

“Don't, please, don't,” Amberyl said, crawling nearer to the mage.

“Look at me, lady!” Raistlin gasped, his laughter catching in his throat, setting him to
coughing. Grinning at her mirthlessly, he gestured outside. “You had best wait for my
brother,” he said. “Caramon will be back soon... .”

“No, he won't,” Amberyl said softly, creeping closer still to Raistlin. “Your brother will
not be back before morning.”

Raistlin's lips parted. His eyes - filled with a sudden hunger - devoured Amberyl's face.
“Morning,” he repeated.

“Morning,” she said.

Reaching up a trembling hand, Raistlin brushed back the beautiful hair from her delicate
face. “The fire will be out long before morning.”

“Yes,” said Amberyl softly, blushing, resting her cheek against the mage's hand. “It -
it's already growing cold in here. We will have to do something to keep warm ... or we
will perish. . . .”

Raistlin drew his hand over her smooth skin, his finger touching her soft lips. Her eyes
closed, she leaned toward him. His hand moved to touch her long eyelashes, as fine as elven lace. Her body pressed close to his. He could feel her shivering. Putting his arm
around her, he drew her close. As he did so, the fire's last little flame flickered and
died. Darkness warmer and softer than the blankets covered them. Outside they could hear
the wind laughing, the trees whispering to themselves.

“Or we will perish . . .” Raistlin murmured.

Amberyl woke from a fitful sleep wondering, for a moment, where she was. Stirring
slightly, she felt the mage's arm wrapped around her protectively, the warmth of his body
lying next to hers. Sighing, she rested her head against his shoulder, listening to the
shallow, too rapid breathing. She let herself lie there, surrounded by his warmth, putting
off the inevitable for as long as possible.

Outside, she could no longer hear the wind and knew the storm must have ended. The
darkness that covered them was giving way to dawn. She could barely make out the blackened
remnants of the firewood in the gray half-light. Turning slightly, she could see
Raistlin's face.

He was a light sleeper. He stirred and muttered at her movement, coughing, starting to
wake. Amberyl touched his eyelids lightly with her fingertips, and he sighed deeply and
relaxed back into sleep, the lines of pain smoothing from his face.

How young he looks, she thought to herself. How young and vulnerable. He has been deeply
hurt. That is why he wears the armor of arrogance and unfeeling. It chafes him now. He is
not used to it. But something tells me he will become all too accustomed to this armor
before his brief life ends.

Moving carefully and quietly so as not to disturb him - more by instinct than because she
feared she would wake him from his enchanted sleep - Amberyl slid out from his unconscious
embrace. Gathering her things, she wrapped the scarf once more about her head. Then,
kneeling down beside the sleeping mage, she looked upon Raistlin's face one last time.

“I could stay,” she told him softly. “I could stay with you a little while. But then my
solitary nature would get the better of me and I would leave you and you would be hurt.” A
sudden thought made her shudder. Closing her eyes, she shook her head. “Or you might find
out the truth about our race. If you ever discovered it, then you would loathe me, despise
me! Worse still” - her eyes filled with tears - “you would despise our child.”

Gently, Amberyl stroked back the mage's prematurely white hair, her hand caressed the
golden skin. “There is something about you that frightens me,” she said, her voice
trembling. “I don't understand. Perhaps the wise will know. ...” A tear crept down her
face. “Farewell, mage. What I do now will keep pain from us both” - bending down, she
kissed the sleeping face - “and from one who should come into this world free of all its
burdens.”

Amberyl placed her hand upon the mage's temples and, closing her eyes, began reciting
words in the ancient language. Then, tracing the name CARAMON upon the dirt floor, she
spoke the same words over it as well. Rising hurriedly to her feet, she started to leave
the cave. At the entrance she paused. The cave was damp and chill, she heard the mage
cough. Pointing at the fire, she spoke again. A blazing flame leaped up from the cold
stone, filling the cave with warmth and light. With a final backward glance, a last, small
sigh, Amberyl stepped out of the cave and walked away beneath the watchful, puzzled trees
of the magical Forest of Wayreth.

Dawn glistened brightly on the new-fallen snow when Caramon finally made his way back to
the cave.

“Raist!” he called out in a frightened voice as he drew nearer. “Raist! I'm sorry! This
cursed forest!” He swore, glancing nervously at the trees as he did so. “This . . .
blasted place. I spent half the night chasing after some wretched firelight that vanished
when the sun came up. Are - are you all right?” Frightened, wet, and exhausted, Caramon
stumbled through the snow, listening for his brother's answer, cough . . . anything.

Hearing nothing from within the cave but ominous silence, Caramon hurried forward, tearing
the blanket from the entrance in his desperate haste to get inside.

Once there, he stopped, staring about him in astonishment.

A comfortable, cheery fire burned brightly. The cave was as warm - warmer - than a room in
the finest inn. His twin lay fast asleep, his face peaceful, as though lost in some sweet
dream. The air was filled with a springlike fragrance, as of lilacs and lavendar.

“I'll be a gully dwarf,” Caramon breathed in awe, suddenly noticing that the fire was
burning solid rock. Shivering, the big man glanced around. “Mages!” he muttered, keeping a
safe distance from the strange blaze. “The sooner we're out of this weird forest the
better, to my mind. Not that I'm not grateful,“ he added hastily. ”Looks like you wizards saved Raist's
life. I just wonder why it was necessary to send me on that wild-swimmingbird chase.”
Kneeling down, he shook his brother by the shoulder.

“Raist,” Caramon whispered gently. “Raist. Wake up!”

Raistlin's eyes opened wide. Starting up, he looked around. “Where is - ” he began.

“Where is who? What?” Caramon cried in alarm. Backing up, his hand on the hilt of his
sword, he looked frantically around the small cave. “I knew - ”

“is . . . is - ” Raistlin stopped, frowning.

“No one, I guess,” the mage said softly, his hand going to his head. He felt dizzy.
“Relax, my brother,” he snapped irritably, glancing up at Caramon. “There is no one here
but us.”

“But . . . this fire . . .” Caramon said, eyeing the blaze suspiciously. “Who - ”

“My own work,” Raistlin replied. “After you ran off and left me, what else could I do?
Help me to my feet.” Stretching out his frail hand, the mage caught hold of his brother's
strong one and slowly rose up out of the pile of blankets on the stone floor.

“I didn't know you could do anything like that!” Caramon said, staring at the fire whose
fuel was rock.

“There is much about me you do not know, my brother,” Raistlin returned. Wrapping himself
up warmly in his cloak, he watched as Caramon hurriedly repacked the blankets.

“They're still a little damp,” the big man muttered. “I suppose we ought to stay and dry
them out. . . .”

“No,” Raistlin said, shivering. He took hold of the Staff of Magius that was leaning
against the cavern wall. “I have no desire to spend any more time in the Forest of
Wayreth.”

“You've got my vote there,” Caramon said fervently. “I wonder if there are any good inns
around here. I heard that there was one, built near the forest. It's called the Wayward
Inn or some such thing.” The big man's eyes brightened. “Maybe tonight we'll eat hot food
and drink good ale for a change. And sleep in a bed!”

“Perhaps.” Raistlin shrugged, as if it didn't much matter.

Still talking of what he had heard about the rumored inn, Caramon picked up the blanket
that had hung over the cave entrance, folded it, and added it to the ones in his pack.
“I'll go ahead a little way,” he said to his brother. “Break a trail through the snow for
you.”