Kevin Stein - Brothers Majere

'This is gonna hurt real bad. Earwig," Caramon whispered.

He saw blood seeping from under the gold, as if the finger were being bitten. Shuddering, he tried again, but the flow of blood increased and the ring stayed where it was. Earwig moaned and thrashed about in pain.

"What am I going to do?" Caramon wracked his brain for an answer. The realm of magic was far beyond his comprehension. "What would you do, Raist?" he muttered. He could almost hear his brother's voice: "Cut off the finger."

Caramon slowly drew out his knife. "Well, if that's what I have to do…" He took hold of the ring, now wet with blood, and gave it one last try. He thought he felt it wiggle slightly.

Wet with blood. Wet. Rub soap around a ring and it will slip off. No soap, but if I could get it slick enough… 'That's it!"

Caramon turned the dagger on himself, slashing a large cut in his thumb. He dripped his blood over the ring, pouring more and more of his life's essence onto the gold until the kender's hand was stained crimson.

"It's not soap, but let's see if this works!"

Caramon pinched the band between his thumb and forefinger and pulled. The ring slipped off easily – too easily/ It almost seemed as if was growing and expanding, pulsing in his grip. Caramon stared at it in fascination.

Put me on! Put me on!

It is a beautiful ring and it will fit me now, Caramon thought.

Earwig screamed in pain, a sound that echoed in the chamber for many minutes. He writhed in throes of incredible agony, moaning like a child.

"She was in my head – she was in my head – she was in my head!"

Caramon threw the ring aside. Catching his friend up in his huge arms, the warrior held Earwig close to his chest, rocking the sobbing kender gently.

Meneklan was awaiting the forming of the Great Eye. The three moons, Solinari, Lunitari, and dark Nuitari, forging the same arcs they had crossed for thousands of years, would once more meet again. White over red over black – an eye to gaze upon the world, a focus to release the power of wizards dead since the Age of Might.

Who would use it?

Walking, his head bent into a wind only he could feel, Raistlin searched the paths and portents of his life, from his childhood to his indoctrination into the ranks of the adept, to where he stood now on the flawless street. He sought to discover the key to the mystery of the festival that had remained locked since the Cataclysm.

His right hand gripped the Staff of Magius, using it both as support and reference. Its black wood, golden claw, and pale blue orb were the pinnacles of magical knowledge – an artifact containing runes and glyphs to spells he could not yet comprehend. It held the wisdom of the one who had created it, potent rituals and sacrifices lost to the past, available to those who could hear its silent tales. It was to these venerable voices that the mage listened, ignoring all else around him.

Pictures and images floated across his consciousness, sensation more than substance. He let his spirit flow into the lines of the staff. Paths of power took him, scattered parts of his mind to other roads. But the mage did not have the experience to clutch through the veil of time and penetrate to the past. His will was forced from the rune-paths again and again, until he finally admitted defeat.

"The Eye forms tonight, and I still don't know what is happening! Who will use its power? How can I use its power!"

He gripped the black staff harder than before, feeling strength in his hand, arm, and limbs. The sickness had drained from his body since his first encounter with the growing force of the Great Eye, his frame infused by magics. The idea of having his shattered health restored permanently stirred him to action, bringing hope he once thought impossible to have. Could I truly break free of him?

Yes, whispered Shavas's rich and sensuous voice in his mind. Ally yourself with me, and together we will fight him. Powerful forces will soon be mine to command. After this night's work, I will be richly rewarded and you shall share!

Raistlin heard an answering echo in his mind, the echo of a dream.

Where is my reward?

Forthcoming.

With that word Raistlin understood where to find the knowledge he sought. But only at great cost. Snap the golden thread, and magic \vould be lost to him forever. But he would have Shavas. He would have wealth, power. Would it matter so much that he didn't have the magic? Raistlin pressed his hand against his head. The blood throbbed in his brain.

The Staff of Magius rapped in frustration against the ground, the metal tip ringing, its vibrations bringing the mage back to the present. The moons were rising higher, the two he could see casting imperfect shadows onto the streets as mystic lights began to collect in their eternal parade – stars of illumination that leaped to their positions above the sidewalk and atop the highest buildings. Raistlin stopped and watched their creation, staring as a pool of white collected at his feet then shot away, speeding to a nearby park. It was as if Mereklar itself were coming alive.

The scream of a wounded animal cut through the quiet, causing Raistlin to start from his meditative observations. The noise had come from a few blocks away, forward and to the left, from an area where he was already headed.

It appears I will have to make my decision much sooner than I expected, he thought, and felt a pang of fear.

The mage increased his pace, searching the alleys and sidestreets. Another block farther and Raistlin was forced to duck into a doorway. An organized unit of men came around a corner, marching in regular lines, holding short spears or swords. Another group followed, carrying the same equipment, moving with a listless gait.

Raistlin wondered where they were going. The town seemed deserted.

The sound came again – another scream of pain and rage. The mage removed the leather bag from his belt and opened the flap to reveal the wand Shavas had given him, the wand covered in strange, angled runes. Slowly, he drew it out and bolted from the alley, running as swiftly as he dared up Southgate Street, heading for Le-man Square.

There he knew he would find him – Bast, the Lord of Cats.

Raistlin turned left down a dark sidestreet, going to the right when he reached the end of the block. He noticed that the lights hovering above the sidewalk appeared to be growing dim, as if their fuel were slowly running out. He went left again, down the main street. Reaching the open area leading to the square, he rounded the final corner and came to a sudden halt.

Wounded and panting, the man in black stood at bay beneath a tree, surrounded by the remaining ministers of Mereklar. Lord Cal advanced on him, a red-glowing wand in his hand.

"Hear me. Lord of the Cats. Our Lady does not want you for her enemy. She bids you and those you rule to join us and find power in the darkness you know so well."

"Your 'lady' cares nothing for us!" Bast spat the words. "She wants only to use us as she uses all who come under her sway." The Lord of the Cats lifted his head proudly. "We are free. We serve ourselves. So it has been, and so shall it be."

"Die free, then!" snarled Lord Cal, and raised the wand.

We are free. We serve ourselves.

"Shirak" called Raistlin, his voice clear and strong.

The Staff of Magius burst into light, shining more brightly than the two converging moons. Bast's eyes, staring at the mage, shone with red flame. The ministers half-turned, blinking against the brilliance.

"Who – "

"The mage," said Lord Cal, his lip curling.

"I'll handle this," said Lord Alvin in an undertone. "Raistlin Majere, we accused you falsely and we apologize. As you can see, we have the murderous beast cornered. Serve us in our fight, and you will be richly rewarded! Lady Shavas will see to that!"