Kevin Stein - Brother's Majere

“If I make a mistake,” he said to himself coolly, “then it will be my last.” He dumped the contents of the tube into the bottle.

Replacing the stopper, he turned and regarded the game board, remembering where he had left off before leaving on his mission for the lady of the house.

Shavas had made a move after he had gone. His champion had been transformed into one of the undead.

“How very fitting,” Raistlin murmured.

Heavy double-doors opened on silent hinges, and perfume wafted into the room. Shavas entered. She was wearing a loose, enfolding gown of purest silk, as white as the curve of her shoulders. The cloth flowed with the graceful movement of her body like wandering wisps of cloud. She smiled at Raistlin. Her face glowed with an inner radiance. She looked as if she had just completed some great triumph and now sought relaxing entertainment.

“I am pleased that you returned, Raistlin,” she said, taking the chair across from the mage. “At last I see we understand each other.”

“Is that the reason for your apparent happiness, Councillor?”

“Councillor? Don’t insult me! I am no longer Councillor. There is, after all, nothing left to counsel.” She laughed at her joke.

“You seem very sure of yourself, my lady,” the mage corrected with emphasis. “The city has not yet fallen.” He moved a priest from its confines behind the lines of his knights and yeomen.

Shavas placed her fingertips on her own priest, deciding on a move. “There is no one to stop us. The people of Mereklar will soon be dead.” She slid the priest forward.

Her move put the mage in a precarious position. Raistlin leaned back, considering. “How long have you lived in this city?” he asked without looking up from the board.

“Oh, many years, many years-in one form or another. I was the first councillor. I will be the last,” the woman replied.

Raistlin looked up at her. The woman’s beautiful eyes gazed directly into the mage’s face.

Rising to his feet, Raistlin walked to the sideboard and picked up the brandy bottle. He poured himself a glass.

“Pour one for me, my love,” said Shavas.

Raistlin shivered at the sound of the word that slid so glibly from tempting lips. He poured a glass of brandy and handed it to her.

“A toast,” he said. “To the Lord of the Cats.”

Shavas gave a small, silvery laugh. “How droll you are!”

Raistlin lifted the glass of brandy to his lips and drank the burning liquid. Shavas drank deeply, her eyes gleaming above the rim of the goblet.

She moved to stand near the mage. Flames from the fire shone through the gossamer of her robes, exposing the curvature of her figure. Languidly, she reached above her head and released the cascading flow of her long brown hair, letting it fall about her face and shoulders.

“What do you want of me?” Raistlin asked. “I am not like my brother. I am not … attractive.”

“You are powerful, Raistlin. I always find power attractive. And you could become more powerful over time.”

“Time? …”

“Yes. We will have all the time in the world.”

“And how would we do that?” he asked, taking another drink from his glass.

“My magic is vast, stronger than almost any you have encountered before. I would be willing to … share it with you.”

“To what end?”

Shavas drank the brandy. Emptying her glass, she filled it again from the decanter and wandered about the library, running her fingers across the suits of armor standing guard in the room. Going to a bookcase, she lifted out a volume. The title, Brothers Majere , was stamped in gold on the back.

“You wear the red robes, mage, but you will not wear them forever. You do not have the patience to stand in the middle. You must make a choice, or your passions will tear you asunder.”

“That may be, but all in my own time. I repeat, what do you want of me?”

“It is, rather, what you want of me,” said Shavas, coming close and putting her soft hand on his arm. “I am offering you the chance to control your own destiny. I am offering you an alliance with the Dark Queen!”

“The carriage is gone. Now, I’ll have to walk,” said the kender, disgruntled.

He started down the street, thinking just between himself and the fish market that it would have been a lot more fun if he and Caramon had come down here together when one of the ugly, twisted creatures popped out of a side street and came to stand in front of him.

“Hullo,” said the kender brightly, extending a hand. “My name’s Earwig-”

The creature raised its hand. It was holding a most fascinating-looking device, a wand of some sort. It began to glow bright red. Thinking the creature was offering the wand to him-since it was pointing it at him-the kender reached out and took it. “Thank you,” he said.

The creature, with a snarl, tried to snatch the wand back.

“Hey!” said Earwig. “You gave it to me! Gully dwarf-giver!” he taunted.

The creature flew into a rage and came at Earwig, teeth bared, slavering.

“No! You’re not getting this back!”

The kender swung the hoopak. Thwack! It caught the creature on the side of its head. It tumbled to the street and lay there, unmoving.

“Gosh, I’m sorry,” said Earwig, nudging it with the toe of his boot. “Well, let that be a lesson to you,” he added.

“Now, let’s see you turn red and glow!” He looked at the wand expectantly. Nothing happened. The kender shook it. Still nothing.

“Broken!” he said in disgust. “Here, you can have it back after all,” he said and tossed the wand onto the body of the creature, who was just beginning to stir and sit up groggily.

Thinking that Caramon might be wanting him, the kender continued on his way.

Arriving in the center of the city, Earwig discovered an army of the ugly creatures marching about in the street, shouting and singing in terrible-sounding voices. The kender was feeling disgruntled and out-of-sorts and didn’t particularly want to talk to anybody, so he ducked into a doorway to take a look around. Across from where he was standing was a tall, domed building.

“Say!” exclaimed Earwig. “That’s where Lady Shavas is supposed to have her house. Drat! Maybe I’ve come the wrong way.”

But he looked at the streets and recognized them. Yes, he was definitely in the center of town.

“I should go tell her,” said the thoughtful kender, completely forgetting what Raistlin had told him about the Dark Queen’s temple. “Lady Shavas might not know her house is gone.”

Earwig stepped out from the doorway and was about to cross the street (eyeing with interest some of the pouches the creatures were carrying), when he heard a smothered cry, almost right behind him.

“Earwig. Over here!”

“Caramon?” The kender squinted into the shadows and saw a glint of metal.

“Caramon?” he called loudly. “Is that you?”

An arm reached out, grabbed him by the collar, and dragged him into an alleyway.

“Hey! Don’t! You’ll wrinkle my-”

“Shut up!” Caramon clapped his hand over the kender’s mouth.

The warrior, holding the wriggling kender tightly, peered out into the street. The marching demons were making a great deal of noise and didn’t appear to have heard anything.

“Shhhh!” he whispered, letting go of Earwig slowly.

The kender stared at him, face flushing in anger. “You’ve been fighting again!” Earwig cried, stamping his foot. “Without me!”

“I’m sorry,” Caramon growled. “Keep your voice down! Have you seen the Cat Lord?”

“Sure,” said Earwig.

Caramon brightened. “You have? Where?”